An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

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 people. 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.”

“Tedium? That’s serious.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You’re not arranging a private bean collection alphabetically or anything terrible like that, I hope.”

I laugh. Something frees up inside my chest. “No. I’d be useless at that without you. Even if I had a bean collection.”

“Give it time,” he teases.

Something in me leaps at the idea of more time with Blake. He says it so casually, like of course we have unlimited days before us, unlike the current clock ticking on his days before going back home to America. It’s a thrill to think of doing anything with Blake, even organizing a hypothetical bean collection.

God, I have it bad.

“’Kay, so no bean organization. Book organization?”

“Well,” I say glumly. “You’re close with that one. Except my shop’s still mostly cleared out from filming, my stock in boxes somewhere on one of your film crew’s lorries. And the problem—one of them—is the floor. Apparently my assistant, Gemma, saw the damage happen. Alice Rutherford left an apologetic note, but I have no idea if they will actually fix this. Or how much it will cost me. Or how long it will take. Because every day the shop’s closed is a day I’m losing money. They’re not filming, so I don’t think I’m getting any money for the location, either.”

“Shit.” Blake’s frown is audible. “That’s fucked.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he says with authority. “Let me help.”

“Blake, it’s brilliant that you fixed my sink, but the floors—”

“I’m not going to fix the floors, don’t worry—but I’ll talk to Alice to make sure they do right away.” His voice is tense. “They should have fixed it already.”

“Well…”

“Leave it with me,” Blake assures me. His easy confidence provides some comfort. I’m not used to letting anyone help me. Everything always needs to be sorted on my own. I want to protest, but it’s a strange, comforting feeling knowing that he wants to help me.

“Are you sure?”

“’Course.”

“’Kay.” I draw a deep breath. I’ll give him a chance to sort this out. “See you later to make plans for the weekend?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. And don’t worry, I’m going to talk to Alice right now.”

With that, I hang up and sit back in my office chair. I’m still stressed, but with Blake’s help, I feel less overwhelmed. Like maybe this is fixable after all.

When Blake arrives later, the shop has heated to the surface temperature of the sun. The usual curtains that cover the windows were packed away during the filming prep, and the curtains for filming taken away. The door’s propped open for any hint of a breeze. A couple of ancient fans attempt to circulate air.

“Aubrey?” Blake calls into the mostly empty room, his voice echoing.

I emerge from my office to see him standing just inside the open door. He puts down an overnight bag against the wall.

Behind him, traffic’s snarled with the Friday commute. A steady flow of foot traffic passes. This would be prime time for book sales. If only I had books. Never mind.

Instead, I thrill at the sight of him, lifting me again from the glum of the day’s problems. Blake’s in a form-fitting sky-blue shirt, a great contrast against his tan. And, thankfully, showing his well-toned arms. He takes off his sunglasses and grins. He draws me close, and we kiss to make heat of our own.

When we straighten, it takes a moment to bring me back.

“You all right? I’ve been worried. You sounded so down.”

“Well…” I’d rather pretend I don’t have problems with the shop and disappear into the fantasy of Blake. But he’s looking at me so intently. “I’m mostly okay. I suppose. Except for the bits that…aren’t.”

He frowns. “Well, tell me. But first, look what I found. It’s rare in your country.”

Blake produces cold beer and crisps from another bag. “Let’s have a picnic for now and then order something or go out. What do you think?”

“Brilliant.”

I lock up the front door, turning to see Blake scowl at the damaged floor. He’s crouched, running his fingers along one of the deep ruts.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I sigh.

“But I have good news.”

“Oh?”

We walk through to the back and climb the stairs to my flat, which is also hot. At least the air moves more up here with the open windows. Blake sets out our picnic. The cold lager’s refreshing.

“I talked to Alice,” Blake tells me after opening the crisps. “And I got mad that they hadn’t fixed things already. She promised me that they would have someone come tomorrow—”

Disappointment knots in my stomach. So much for our plans to get away.

“Thanks.” Unfortunately, I sound more disappointed than thrilled.

Blake frowns at me, worried. “Is that not good? I just wanted to help.”

“No, no, it’s good. Thanks. Just…I was looking forward to a weekend mini-break with you,” I confess sheepishly. Though that will cost too, but I don’t want to be a drag either. “Obviously the floors need to be fixed as soon as possible.”

Blake’s expression softens. “I’m looking forward to going away too.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Could your assistant help? Like, could she supervise?”

“Her supervision is how this happened in the first place.” I sigh. “Maybe. I can ask her.”

He brightens. “If she can help, the weekend’s saved.”

The only problem is that Gemma’s help comes with a price tag.

“This is all so expensive. I just…maybe I shouldn’t.” I reach for the crisps set on the coffee table. Blake’s beside me on the sofa.

“On that note,” Blake says, “I have some news.”

“Oh? What sort of news?”

Blake’s smile gives me hope.

“Yeah, news,” he confirms. “Great news. The production company’s covering not only the cost of all repairs, but every day you’re closed too. Original hardwood floors better than the ones you had. And they’re paying for every day till you can fully open again.”

I brighten a little at that. “Really?”

“Really.” He squeezes my hand.

“It sounds too good to be true.”

“Apparently it’s in your contract you signed, Alice says.”

“You’re right.” Despite the heat, I lean into him. Blake wraps his arms around me. Like this, there’s some hope.

“Thanks for looking into all of this for me.” I give him a kiss, but I can’t shake off my worries, even so. Not entirely.

He frowns. “You still have that look.”

“What look?”

“A stressed look like you’re thinking of fifteen different things all at the same time. What is it?”

“It’s not what you’ve done,” I assure Blake. “That’s brilliant. It’s just…well, I’m behind on the shop’s bills and now the flat too and…all of this might not be enough. I mean, I shouldn’t spend more money on anything, really.”

Blake gives me a kiss. “Listen. The weekend escape is my treat. If you still want to escape with me, that is.”

“Of course I do,” I blurt instantly.

He laughs, looking relieved. “Oh, good.”

“Sorry. It’s just been so much worrying about the shop, you know? I’m behind on a lot and the film’s helping short-term, but I don’t know how I can get out of this hole. Or if I even can, how I won’t end up in the same place six months from now.”

It’s a lot to think about. I’m mad at myself for even thinking about any of this while Blake’s here, just wanting to enjoy the very limited time we have together. Anything beyond this is a dream, no matter how much I want him.

He squeezes me lightly. “I’m very glad you’re telling me. I want to know about you. And help.”

“You’re fantastic, did I tell you that?” I sigh, leaning into him.

Affectionately, he nuzzles me. “All you need to worry about this weekend is relaxing.”

“God, I’m going to miss you.” That tumbles out before I can help it too. That’s the problem with Blake. He’s so disarming I find myself saying all kinds of things I don’t say to anyone, not even Lily.

“I’m not going anywhere yet, gorgeous. Now. Let me spoil you and take you away this weekend, if you’ll let me?”

“’Kay. What did you have in mind?”

“I hear the Lake District’s beautiful. We can grab a rental car and do some hiking. Or hillwalking, as I hear the locals call it. Get a little cottage for a couple of days. What do you think?”

Part of me wants to stress and protest at the cost. The other part of me thrills at being taken care of by Blake, his careful attention. In response, I kiss him. And he kisses me.

Then, we spend the evening making arrangements. Gemma agrees to come help with supervising repairs at the shop. Blake and I scroll through cottages and book one.

It’s wonderful, the idea of having Blake to myself for a few days in a world of our own.