An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter One

There are two kinds of people in the world: people who put things away as they should, and arseholes who shelve books with no respect for the alphabet.

I hold the two—yes, two—misfiled copies of Pride and Prejudice. What sort of heathen would put Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice all the way across the shop with the thrillers? The other copy had been over in Comedy.

I’m a tolerant man, but only some sort of twisted individual would go that far. Like I don’t have enough to do to keep my Soho bookshop afloat without some rogue bookshelving action to muck up my inventory.

The other day I found Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray shelved with Mil Millington’s Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About. Before that, Brontë’s Wuthering Heights was caught canoodling with Gabaldon’s Outlander in the G section.

Vandalism, pure and simple.

The last customer for the evening left five minutes ago. The radio’s on, playing the Arctic Monkeys as I put the shop to bed for the night. I head over to Romance, Jane Austen in tow. Along the way, I neaten up a stray stack of bestsellers on the front table.

Each book has a place, and that place follows the rules of the alphabet. Most people have some passing familiarity with the alphabet before they start school. And A is the first letter they should learn if they paid any attention at all as a four-year-old.

As I shelve the wayward books, I spot Madeline Miller’s TheSong of Achilles in Romance when it ought to be in General Fiction.

Oh, for the love of—

“Getting worked up again? Or still?” My only employee, Gemma, leans across the counter, amused, rubbernecking shamelessly at the scene of the crime. She’s curvy, something decadent. She’s in a lightweight silver blouse over her skirt, the hot day having shifted into evening. She’s ready to go out once we close. Something I won’t be doing tonight.

There was a time not that long ago when my Friday nights were spent out. Now, that time’s better spent working and not thinking about the past. Or the future, for that matter. As in, there’ll be no future if my shop goes belly-up.

Behind Gemma, built-in oak bookcases with classics and collectible editions reach nearly to the tall ceiling. Light spills into the front of the shop from the streetlamps.

She snaps her gum, because she knows that will drive me mad. One day, I think she’s expecting my brain to literally melt out of my ears. One day, it might actually happen.

“What did I say about snapping gum? It’s seriously annoying.”

She waves a hand. “Loosen up, Aubs. You’re the youngest grumpy old man I’ve ever met. You might look cool with the piercings and band T-shirts, but to be honest, sometimes I worry about you.”

I stand to my full height, which can be imposing I’m told for someone not quite hitting six feet. “It’s Aubrey. Not Aubs. How many times have I told you?”

She laughs, unrepentant as she peers at me from beneath a blunt-cut dark fringe. “That’s brilliant on your dating profile. Or Grindr. Mr. Aubrey ‘How Many Times Have I Told You’ Barnes.”

We look at each other across the shop. Or, more accurately, I glare at her. Thankfully, there’re no customers present to witness my daily mortifications by a uni student barely younger than me who loves to mop the floor with my pride.

The truth is we met in a book club a couple of years back, and we became fast friends. She gave hilarious reviews, which turned out to be handy for the shop. She thought I was delightfully quirky. It would have been the perfect spring romance, except that I’m attracted to men, and I was together with my ex. At any rate, we’ve got the banter down, especially now that I rely on her help in the shop. Customers love her too.

She pretends to reconsider. “Or how about ‘Aubrey Barnes, Fierce Defender of Books’? That’s got a superhero thing going on. More sympathetic, I think. Am I right or am I right?” Gemma gives an impish smile.

Once upon a time, I was just Aubrey Barnes, ready to go for pints or a gig or the occasional big night out. Back before life became too real. Now, I’m twenty-three going on forty-three.

I sigh, noting the untied lace on one of my Docs. I bend to fix it. “You’re here as the weekend help, remember?”

“And to give solid dating advice too. Value-added. You really ought to pay me extra for that.” She grins.

Gemma dates like it’s an unofficial Olympic sport. She also has a habit of telling me all the gruesome details, no matter how much I protest that I’m her boss and don’t need to know those things. She says it’s for my own good.

“Heckling is a bonus feature, I take it?” Resigned, I cross the shop to file The Song of Achilles in the right section.

“You can thank me another time.” Gemma at last straightens, adjusting her messy bun. “So am I done for the day yet? I’m going dancing after work.”

I check my watch amid my stack of black and brown leather bracelets. The watch is proper vintage, aviator style, with a black dial and white numbers, complete with a rich brown leather strap. Beautiful—and a glum reminder. Not just of the passage of time, which at twenty-three years old I’m still getting used to. No, even worse, it’s a reminder of Eli and last year’s birthday gift. To be honest, I should put it away or give it away, but he knows my taste so well. Besides, it really is a brilliant watch. It’s not the watch’s fault that he gave it to me.

“Aubs?”

“Yeah, sorry. Right. Go on, then. I’ll flip the sign in a minute.”

Studying me for a moment, she nods. “Cheers.”

Gemma heads off into the back to gather her things. I go to the shop front and switch the sign over to closed and lock the door. It’s late enough that even the Friday evening book browsers have moved on to other things. The beauty of owning a shop is that I set the hours. And the rules, though the truth is that I’m no enforcer and Gemma and everyone else in London knows it.

I head to the back into the small kitchen to put the kettle on. The kettle sits on the old pine sideboard, which has been there since approximately forever. There’s no dancing for me, not my usual scene these days. I’d much rather stay in and enjoy some of the classic introverted activities. Like hiding. And reading. Classical literature? Art books? Tawdry smut? I’m game for anything to stop my relentless brain doing time trial relays inside my skull. Maybe I’ll start one of the trade-ins that were brought in today.

While I wait for the tea to steep, Gemma pokes her head into the pocket-sized kitchen. She’s wearing the most mini of spray-on miniskirts and some vague suggestion of a blouse, a sheer black number over a halter top. She’s put on makeup for the night out, including an enviable shade of lipstick.

And I thought she’d been dressed up to go out before. My eyebrows lift.

“What, you’re telling me you were never part of the mesh shirt and thong set, dancing on a speaker?” Gemma asks archly.

I open my mouth and blush something furious. What a horrifying vision. “Oh no. God, no. Please, no.”

She giggles, obviously pleased with my reaction. “You sure you don’t want to come out with us tonight?”

“Never.”

The idea of a dance floor with too-close writhing bodies, strangers, sweat, and too much brash sexuality in my face is something I’m definitely not up for. Not even with Gemma. Probably not even in my first year of uni.

I once went to clubs, to their dazzle and bright, sticky floors and even stickier booths for overpriced drinks. Although never in a mesh shirt, thank God. Even Eli’s influence couldn’t lure me that far. Not his, or anyone else’s.

Gemma gives me a wry smile. “Maybe the pub another night? We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Maybe,” I concede, pouring the tea. “Have fun. Remember, I need you in at noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here. Sober, even.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies.”

She grins, something dazzling that would doubtless work on most people. Probably anyone other than me. Blowing a kiss, she heads out, and I lock the door after her.

Taking my tea, I head up the stairs at the back to the bedsit over the shop. It’s crammed with books, usually serving as an extra stockroom and office. Now it’s home. The walls are painted midnight blue, or at least what can be seen of them where they’re not covered by bookcases or prints left by the three generations of Barneses before me that worked here.

I once had a proper home, a flat. Well, Eli and I had a flat together. Now, it’s Eli’s flat with his live-in boyfriend. I better not start the dreary cycle of thoughts on what they could be doing on a Friday night together in our old home. These days, I literally live and breathe books by living in the shop. The good thing about this new arrangement is that there’s no shortage of things to read.

I flop down on the leather sofa jammed between two bookcases under the window. Floor-to-ceiling shelving wraps around the room, heaving with books. Since there’s no more room on the shelves, books are stacked in neat piles in front of them. The low coffee table is full of books too. A small desk in the corner has my old laptop with the shop files, and a wooden crate beneath it is filled with notebooks of half-written poems, a couple of sketchbooks, and art supplies. My cat sleeps on the desk chair on top of the accounts book. In the corner, another sofa lies converted into my bed. As far as sofa beds go, it’s moderately comfortable.

Mum’s been too ill the last couple of years to work. She signed over the shop to me last year. Now, it’s just down to me to run everything. I should catch up on the bookkeeping tonight, but I don’t have the willpower to go through things. The result is always the same: never enough income. Our family business is fading. People want Waterstones or independent mega shop Foyles just down the street. Or even the actual Barnes and Noble, over in America.

If only I’d taken business classes instead of literature. If I had, I might be in better shape or know what to do to turn things around. Instead, I muddle on and hope for the best, for some miracle that I can tell Mum without it being a lie that everything’s fine, that we’ll be all right.

That I’ll be all right.

…

Before noon, the shop is full of Saturday morning browsers. The bell on the back of the door chimes as it swings open again. This time, it’s not another wave of tourists coming through, but Eli himself looking all too fresh from a morning run, with windswept golden hair like something out of a health and fitness magazine. Muscular. Tanned. He’s in a white T-shirt and black shorts that leave little to the imagination. Eli’s grin is dazzling and he holds a takeaway tray full of coffees.

I really don’t need this today.

“I come in peace. Here’s proof: coffee from down the street. Charlie says hi.” Eli’s unfazed by my looming grump. I haven’t even said anything yet and he already knows my mood.

“You should warn people ahead of time before you show up looking all…” I wave a hand at him. “You’ll distract the customers.”

Even after everything, I still have eyes. Unfortunately.

Eli beams, clearly loving the idea as he sets the tray down next to the till. “I can only hope.”

“Attention whore. Dare I ask what brings you here?”

“Other than the pleasure of seeing you after my run? Just want to say hi. Is that fine? Did you know there’s filming up the street?” He chuckles, pulling a coffee from the tray and sliding it over to me. “Here. You need this. Clearly. You never used to be such a crank.”

“I wonder why,” I say drily, sipping my coffee.

Eli gazes around the store, looking impressed at the sight of the crowd of customers. “This is a good sign.”

“Maybe.”

It’s too much to hope for good signs or anything else. Hope hasn’t done me much good, to be honest.

When Gemma arrives a couple of minutes later, she practically swoons as Eli passes over a coffee. To her credit, she’s on time, but there are shadows under her eyes. Who knows what time she went to sleep.

“You’re an angel.” She raises her cup to him.

A customer comes to the till, and I focus on her. She’s taking stock of everything. She’s middle-aged, dressed head to toe in linen, with a long floral scarf in dilute pinks the only color she wears. She peers at me behind the counter with Gemma, then Eli. She picks up a business card, reading it carefully: Barnes Books—New, Used, and Collectibles.

“Is this like Barnes and Noble?” she asks, frowning. “Owner: Aubrey Barnes.”

“That’s me,” I say.

“You look young to own a shop.” She looks at Eli, brightening. “Are you Mr. Noble, then?”

“No. This is definitely not like Barnes and Noble,” I assure her. My balance sheet guarantees that. “And that’s just Eli. He’s fake news.”

He unleashes a devastating grin that no reasonable person can resist and she blushes. “You’ll have to forgive Aubs. He hasn’t had enough coffee. Plus I broke his heart, so.”

“Oh,” she manages, startled.

I frown at him. It’s old news now, but hardly fodder to fling at innocent bystanders out of nowhere. “Don’t scandalize the customers. Behave yourself.” I focus on her. “How can I help?”

“I’m looking for green books,” she says crisply, down to business. “Preferably forest green, leather-bound, or with gilt lettering or some such.”

I purse my lips. Gemma’s already pretending to look busy and hiding a smile.

“Is there…an actual subject you’re interested in? Like, say…horticulture?” I ask.

“Oh no, subject’s irrelevant. I’m looking for something purely decorative. Something that will look striking on the mantle, you know. Eye-catching.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Gemma’s smile is unmistakable. Eli is blatantly intrigued.

Taking a deep breath, I gesture vaguely at the shelves, pained. “If you just want…green books…you will see them out there on the shelves with their…green covers.”

It practically kills me to say the blindingly obvious.

“Well, I just want green books today,” she clarifies. “I’m decorating with books by color. Last week was oxblood. Next week could be blue. It’s all about the look, you know? Who actually has time to read these days?”

A strangled sound escapes me.

Eli gives her a sympathetic look. “Let me help you.”

He takes her arm and she blushes brilliantly, all too happy to have Eli’s devoted attention. Of course the arsehole would help her pick books by color.

Traitor.

When I look at Gemma, her eyes are bright with suppressed tears of laughter. “That was fucking hilarious,” she manages, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “Your face. Brilliant. Makes up for the hangover.”

I gulp down some coffee, trying to refocus. Eli’s right that it’s good that there are plenty of people in the shop this morning. So far, however, there are a lot of morning browsers but not buyers. Probably shoppers seeking refuge from Oxford Street.

She winks. Soon, she’s flagged down to help a customer. I focus on my coffee. I’m probably not winning at sparkling customer service. Eli’s new friend is engrossed as he shows her books. It’s only a matter of time before they circle back to the Classics and Collectibles section behind me.

Before I can escape the front desk, another customer approaches. A young man. He’s gorgeous—but never mind that. More important, he has a book in hand. I’m hopeful. A paying customer, thank God.

He’s dark-haired, about my age. Stunning, actually. There’s something very appealing about him, and he’s attractive in a styled sort of way. Even his hair cooperates, medium length in controlled waves. Clearly, he’s a man who knows about grooming. Meanwhile, I’m in a rumpled blue shirt and jeans as usual. To my credit, I did drag a comb through my mop of hair this morning, even if I gave shaving a miss.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“I bought this book last week.” American accent. Southern, maybe. A leather messenger bag is slung over his shoulder. The way he’s holding the book, I can’t see the title. The cover’s hidden against his trim chest, his hand cradling the spine, receipt poking out.

“All right.” A sinking feeling hits my stomach. Not a paying customer, then.

“I want a refund.”

“A refund?” I frown.

He nods, gazing at me in an entirely disconcerting way. It’s not helping my mood, even if he is attractive.

“The author’s an asshole,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I don’t want to support him.”

“A lot of authors are arseholes.” It tumbles out before I can stop myself. “Actually, it’s not just writers. Loads of people are arseholes. In most economies, the arseholes are doing quite well for themselves.”

Oh God.

He lifts an eyebrow. “I want a cash refund. That asshole doesn’t need more of my money, especially if the assholes are doing all right, as you say.”

I sigh. “How about store credit instead? I don’t do cash refunds.”

Eli’s going to give me a dressing down later if he can hear this. At least the shop’s full enough, the bell signaling the comings and goings of customers. At last glimpse, he carried several green books from the classics section.

“Shop credit’s not gonna do me any good back home when I go back in a couple of weeks. I think your policy is…” He smirks and his eyes dance. “Bollocks. That’s what you Brits say, right?”

I start to count to ten. Therapy’s taught me the value of taking a minute. “What’s wrong with the author?” I ask reluctantly, already regretting the question.

He waves a hand. Elegant fingers, I can’t help but notice. Long and lean, something that would be brilliant for a musician.

“I told you. Asshole. He did something on Twitter…” He shrugs.

Wearily, I rub my face with my hand. I do not like this man, even if he’s gorgeous. That’s merely a distraction, and I won’t be swayed. “Let me see the book. And social media’s best avoided, for the record.”

“You should know I’m a hit on Instagram,” he says cheerfully.

Of course he is.

He hands over the book. A poetry book. Second-hand.

“The author didn’t get any royalties from this sale. At least you can take heart in that.” It’ll be me that takes the hit, but I don’t want to share this information with a stranger.

I look at the receipt. Eight quid. Gritting my teeth, I open the till and retrieve a tenner and slide it to him across the counter. Our fingers touch. I snatch mine away as though seared by the sun.

“I recommend that you stay away from poetry,” I say. “The ratio of poets to arseholes is high. Alarmingly high. Rabble-rousers, the lot of them. In fact, it’s probably best to skip anything related to that entire form of literature, just to be safe. That includes prose poems and poetic prose.”

I stare him down. Not only am I a bookseller, but I want to ensure the protection of would-be readers from the ravages of poets. Best keep him away from Bukowski and Baudelaire.

“This is more than I paid…” he says, startled as he looks at the cash in his hand. “Are you sure?”

I nod once. “What’s that saying Americans have? The customer is always right?”

He chews his lip before flashing a grin to rival Eli’s. It doesn’t help my dark mood.

He takes a shop card, glances at it. “Is this like the British Barnes and Noble?”

“No. Certainly not. Out.”

The grin returns, a searing dazzle of bright through the dark of the shop. Quickly, I turn away as my face burns. Never mind him.

“See you next time!” And with that, the door jangles shut behind him.