by Hayden Stone
Intrigued, I gaze at him. “Would you show me any of your photos? I mean, ones not on Instagram?”
“If you’re good. Or…not.”
It’s my turn to nip at him, and his shoulder is my target. He shivers and reaches to smooth my hair.
“I can be very not good,” I promise solemnly.
He laughs, obviously pleased. “Only if you show me yours.”
“Dirty man.”
“Filthy.”
We laugh and I lift my head slightly to peer at him. He’s languid, a hand behind his head, looking entirely at ease.
“You actually slept in my terrible sofa bed?” I ask as we both sit up at last.
“I actually did. It’s not so bad. And I finished your book, ’cause I’ve been up for a bit and didn’t want to get caught out like a creeper watching you sleep. I do think you tend to sell yourself and your surroundings short. It’s all charming, like you.”
“You saw my sink,” I point out. “That’s a nightmare, not charming.”
“Well, I might give you the sink.” Blake laughs.
I gaze from him around the room. It’s so small and so full of books, from floor to ceiling, us tucked in a corner on the sofa bed, the desk under another cascade of books, plus the books stacked in front of the tall shelves. The few bits of wall are covered in vintage prints and posters. A red acoustic guitar sits on a stand in a corner.
“Most people don’t live in their stockroom.” I shake my head with a sigh. “I mean, I didn’t used to.”
He takes my hand, squeezing it. In response, I shiver. “Well, I think you’ve got a perfect setup. Three-second commute to work. And entertainment too. Didn’t know you played.” He nods at the guitar.
“My dad’s. I guess you’re right, that it’s convenient being here, but…” It all comes back then, after my suspension of reality, lost in this alternate universe with Blake, where time stills. Coming back to the real world is terrible. I’d rather live in this moment, because it can’t last for a million reasons. And now I’ve got a damaged shop in disarray.
With a sigh, I rub my face with my hands. I don’t want to deal with any of it.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you live in your stockroom?” Blake asks curiously.
It’s a fair question, an inevitable question, but a question that squeezes a groan out of me anyway.
“Because I couldn’t afford a flat of my own after my last relationship ended.” I look anywhere but at him. “I’m putting most of my salary straight back into the shop, because it’s struggling a lot, to be honest. I own the shop, since my mum signed it over to me a couple of years ago, not long after my dad died. I can’t let her down, because she’s got too much to deal with already without me being the Barnes that makes the shop go under. Plus, I want to help her,” I confess, daring a glance at him. “So everything’s fucked up.”
Blake’s quiet, taking this all in. He’s contemplating me, all angles in the low light, his hair delightfully tousled. Is he regretting this, regretting me? Spending time with awkward Aubrey Barnes in his disaster shop?
Instead, he draws me into a kiss. “That all sounds like a lot. And admirable too.”
“Admirable!” I laugh, but I don’t feel it. An old familiar feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, grief and loss and the lingering shadows of the past. “No. I’m trying to do my best after my dad died. My mum hasn’t been well since then. Well, before, really. She can’t work anymore. So I support her. And when things ended with Eli, it just seemed like I needed to focus on her and keep the shop going.”
“Do you mind if I ask what happened with your ex?” Blake asks tentatively. “You can tell me to fuck off otherwise. I don’t mind.”
My head snaps up. I wasn’t expecting that. God, what to say that doesn’t sound all woe is me? There’s the I wasn’t good enough for him or the I wasn’t fun or sexy enough for him or the everything got too real once I left uni after first year. What comes out is a bit different.
Stick to the facts. Brief, succinct, to the point, Aubrey.
“He left me for our best friend, Ryan.” I do my best to keep my voice calm and even. There’s no giveaway waver, or telltale pause. “Eli—you met him, that day in the shop, after you sent the flowers. He just lives up the road. We’re trying to be friends but it’s not always easy.”
Facts. Just facts.
Blake gasps slightly with the surprise. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.”
“It was over a year ago, so I’ve had some time to get used to it,” I tell Blake with a sigh. It’s not quite forlorn, but it’s real, and carries weight. “It wasn’t easy to get over, since we were together so long.”
A separation I never wanted.
“Still…” Blake frowns. “That’s really tough. Like, a double betrayal. Losing your partner and your friend.”
Uncomfortable, I shift and inspect my fingernails. I’ve started chewing them again lately. Not an attractive habit. I try to hide my hands instead.
“It’s complicated. And…we changed. I mean, we were together since we were sixteen. So we didn’t know what it was like to date someone else as an adult,” I try to reason. “But, yeah. Ryan was my friend first, and then he became our friend. A couple of years ago, more now, he was hit by a car on his bike. We both helped him out after, while he got used to life in a wheelchair when he couldn’t walk anymore. Then, I guess things developed between them. I mean, obviously they did. And I moved out and Ryan eventually moved into Eli’s flat. And to be fully honest, moving on’s been rough.”
He looks at me in a wry way that makes me swallow hard, like he’s seeing right into the core of me.
“Anyway, that’s history,” I say awkwardly. “And…here I am. In a stockroom.” I wave a hand around. “The pro is I have plenty of things to read.”
Blake takes my hand, overturns it to trace the heart tattoo before kissing it again, like I’m someone special to be fawned over. If only. I gaze at him as goose bumps track up my arms.
Blake considers me. “So I guess you live with a lot of ghosts.”
“Guess I do, yeah.”
We’re quiet for a long time. Trust Eli to be a conversation killer.
Blake shifts, lost in his own thoughts.
“What’re you thinking?” I ask at last.
“About my own ghosts,” he confesses with a sigh. “We all have them. I mean, a couple of my ghosts are exes too.”
I trace his arm as I listen.
Blake shakes his head. “I had a long-term boyfriend who left me to go back to his ex. And, well, it hurt. I couldn’t live up to whatever they had, I guess. It felt like he was living more in an idealized past than the present, you know?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.” He squeezes my hand, gazing tentatively at me. “I was cheated on a couple of times. Once was bad enough. The second time, with another boyfriend, I was sure I was cursed. That there was something wrong with me.”
It’s hard to imagine Blake going through something like that, when he seems so together. Who wouldn’t want Blake? I wouldn’t say he’s perfect, because no one is, and that’s a lot of expectation to live up to, but he’s sexy and funny and kind. And the way he looks at me is a way I never thought anyone might look at me again.
“I promise things are over with Eli,” I say softly to him. “I wouldn’t dream of cheating on you. Or anyone.”
He swallows hard, his expression momentarily raw before he smooths it over again. “’Kay. You’re sure? ’Cause… Well, I really like you a lot, Aubrey. Even if it hasn’t been that long. If…if it doesn’t work out between us for whatever reason, please be upfront with me.”
“I will.” I hold his gaze. It’s hard to breathe when he looks at me like that, so vulnerable. And with longing too. Like we’re not together for a handful of days before reality takes
over again and he has to go home. But, maybe we can figure out this long-distance thing. Maybe that’s a thing people do. “I want you.”
“I want you too,” Blake murmurs.
And again we’re lost in each other, kissing with reverence.
“You’re brilliant.” I gaze tenderly at Blake. Imagine a couple of weeks ago, my life pre-Blake, pre-filming and rom-coms. What a dark time. Now, it’s like I’ve got hope again.
“So are you. From what I’ve seen.”
“You hardly know me,” I murmur teasingly.
“I know, but I’d love to get to know you more. If you’d let me.”
I gulp and nod.
His answering smile warms the room. And me. “Besides,” Blake drawls, “you need some serious bean education. Who else is going to provide that?”
“Nobody else,” I say with certainty, because that’s a plain fact.
“I really like you, Aubrey.”
“I really like you too,” I confess sheepishly, my face warm. I can’t quite look at him. There’s tumult in my stomach at the realization that Blake actually does mean something to me. Something important and unexpected.
Blake considers. “You want to do something rash?”
A laugh escapes me. “Like what, aside from being up at a ridiculous hour for this long without tea? Go all out at the organic grocery store? Buy mixed nuts?”
He grins. “Nope. Let’s get away together on the weekend. Out of the city, away from anything to do with films and media. We can even take our cameras. Your shop’s still closed, right? And by the look of things, they need to do repairs before you can put anything back in order.”
I open my mouth to protest. To say no, I can’t, I couldn’t possibly. There are the floors to repair, the shelves to restore, and never mind what promises to be days of sorting out books into their right places. He’s got to be mistaken, like he’s got some read on me that I haven’t, because I feel like someone who’s far from living up to my potential. Everything I wanted was put on hold for Mum and the shop. There’s no place for me.
And yet. His eyes are a deep blue in this light, his gaze steady and unwavering and hopeful. It does something melty to my insides, and I’m going to blame that for what happens next.
“’Kay, all right,” I find myself saying to my complete shock. “Let’s fuck off out of town for a couple of days, then.”
Chapter Thirteen
There’s still a day of filming ahead of the weekend. Blake goes off on his filming call at the unholy hour of 6:00 a.m. or whatever horror he said. It’s no kind of hour for a bookseller, and instead I go back to sleep and aim for a more reasonable later start to the morning.
When I go down for tea a couple of hours later, I admire my newly repaired kitchen sink. The new faucet gleams. At a touch of a lever, water runs smoothly from the spout. Water doesn’t squirt at alarming angles or from strange places.
Terribly pleased, I can’t stop grinning as I fill the kettle. Thinking about Blake repairing the sink only leads to me thinking about the invitation back to my place upstairs, the tryst that followed, our confessions to each other.
He didn’t run away. In fact, he left with great reluctance, lots of sleepy kisses, and the promise to catch up later. It’s a rash thought, but what if we could actually make this work? Despite everything, including some small matter of distance.
Humming, I go about my morning. Fortified with tea and some breakfast, I retreat to my office and do some work on the accounts and orders. I even go out to the damaged shop to sigh at the floors without spiraling into deep, existential despair. It’s still bad, but this can be fixed, right?
The door’s open for some fresh air as I sweep up the debris left behind. If I clean up, maybe it won’t look so dreadful. As I work, there’s a knock at the door, and I pause to turn.
The courier peers at me. This time, it’s not the flower delivery man, or my usual courier. She gives me an intent look, only momentarily thrown from her game with the complete absence of my bookshop’s interior.
“Mr. Barnes?”
“Yes?” I ask, leaning the broom in the corner and going over. Sunlight spills across the half-swept floor. The gouges admittedly still look terrible. It’s not the usual day for a book delivery, and she doesn’t have any boxes with her.
I frown slightly as she hands me an envelope and a clipboard.
“Sign here.” She taps at the bottom of the page, and obediently I sign.
“What’s this?”
She gives me a look like I’m especially thick before she leaves. “A letter.”
I grunt an acknowledgment, turning the envelope over to see the return address from the borough. A scowl comes immediately. Whatever this is, I don’t like it already.
As she disappears out of the shop, I stand by the entry, the breeze promising a hot afternoon. My good mood’s rapidly disappearing as I open the envelope with a satisfying tear. And—it’s worse than I thought. They’ve reassessed the bills for my flat and my shop.
Dear Mr. Barnes,
Please remit prompt payment immediately upon notice. Our recent calculations indicate that you are owing on bills for over the past year due to the incorrect council tax band, given the attached flat…
My mouth opens. I make some kind of hiss.
There’s no financial way out of this, even if I could afford the bills, given what the shop takes in. The recalculated taxes are a nightmare. This would have never happened if my father still ran the shop. And if the shop fails, and I disappoint him even though he’s gone, how can I live with that?
It’s even worse than I thought. The shop’s truly fucked now.
After a round of rage sweeping—which is nowhere near as satisfying as it sounds—the damage is fully revealed, adding to my foul mood. A fine cloud of dust hangs in the air. I sneeze.
I stare at the inexplicable hole in the wall that someone’s cut in for who knows what reason. Unable to bear it any longer, and not sure what to do, I call Gemma.
“I need answers,” I blurt when she picks up.
“God, Aubs, don’t you have the decency to text first about a call?” she mumbles, obviously half asleep. “I thought someone died. Nobody rings me. Not even my mum. You should know better. This is hardly a psychic helpline.”
“No one’s died,” I confirm. “And I don’t need any kind of reading. Or seance. Yet.”
I hear the sound of rustling and mumbling and quite possibly the voice of someone else, but who can say for certain other than Gemma.
“’Kay, I’m up, I’m up,” she says while smothering a yawn.
“It’s nearly noon.”
“I’m not scheduled to work today.” She pauses, the frown in her voice. “I don’t think. I mean, the shop’s not in order yet, is it? I haven’t slept for a week.”
“A divine intervention did not, in fact, occur overnight,” I concur, raking my hand through my hair. Though that does raise an intriguing explanation about what happened with Blake last night, but I’m definitely not bringing that up to Gemma, no matter her passing familiarity with celestial events, both scheduled and unscheduled.
“So what’s happening?”
“The floors,” I say darkly, gesturing at them widely in my despair, even if she can’t see. “They’ve been murdered.”
“Old news, mate.”
The arrival of the fresh crop of devastating bills was just the nail in the coffin that I hardly needed for the shop. I’m not mentioning that to Gemma either. Instead, I pace.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say.
“Obviously, you fix them. Or somebody does.” She tuts. Water runs in the background. Then she half covers the microphone and there’s some half-muffled conversation on her end about tea.
“Of course, but how?”
“Call a builder, silly. Call the film pe
ople. Is there a meeting? I don’t know. You worry too much—it’ll be fine.”
“I worry the appropriate amount, thank you very much.”
Gemma laughs, obviously unperturbed because it’s not her ruined shop. “Maybe you need to have some fun and take your mind off things,” she advises.
I open my mouth and shut it. “Fun,” I blurt, reddening, “is not the issue.”
“Are you quite sure?” Gemma sighs. “Look, did you want me to come by and try to fix the floors?”
A shudder runs through me. “I hate to underestimate you, but no, I don’t need you to come fix them.”
“That’s good, because I have things to do today,” she says brightly. “But I can come tomorrow. If that helps. Just let me know.”
“I’m going—” I catch myself, hesitating. Tomorrow means going away with Blake. We haven’t exactly figured out where we’re going, mind you. That’s something for us to decide tonight. “I will,” I promise instead.
“Perfect. Talk soon. It’s going to be fine, Aubs. You’ll see.”
“Is it?”
And she hangs up. I scuff unhappily at a gouge in the floor, aged wood splintering under my sneakers.
Later, Blake rings me on a break from filming. His voice cuts through the gloom of my day, holed up in my office where I’m trying to make miracles happen with the accounts. In truth, it’s more like shuffling papers around and pulling at my hair.
“Hey, gorgeous,” drawls Blake teasingly in my ear. “Miss you.”
Even with the impending financial ruin, my spirits lift at the sound of his voice. For a minute, I can close my eyes and pretend we’re still wrapped up in each other.
“Hey. I miss you too.” Even with being happy to hear from him, I can’t entirely keep a shadow from my voice.
“What’re you doing?”
“Nothing exciting, I promise you.” Unable to keep a sigh at bay, I shake my head. “It’s tedium.”