An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Twenty

I’d like to say that I handled the next couple of days in an upstanding sort of way, the model of calm and grace. Which would be a pack and a half of lies. What happened instead was that I showed up outside of Lily’s work, texting her in a flood of words till she had to leave work early and take me to hers. Plus, I had no working water at home.

Lily’s flat is bright, gallery-white with art from her travels hung on her walls, fresh cut flowers on the coffee and dining tables. We’re in her sitting room. After having slept like a bear headed into winter, I helped her today with editing exhibition text for her upcoming show. Now we sit with a pint of ice cream between us on her sunny sofa. I’m calmer. But my eyes still have that raw feeling.

She’s gone through the Daily Mail, the online gossip sites. Blake’s Instagram hasn’t been updated. There’re no texts from him either. I don’t dare text.

I’ve spilled my guts out to Lily, sobbed on her shoulder till I had no tears left. Now, I just feel wrung out.

I’m scrolling aimlessly on my phone when I search Blake’s name for filming news.

Hollywood Ending Wraps in London, says the headline.

Reading that feels so final. Points for accuracy, extra points for the visceral wound.

“That’s it, then. He’s gone home for good.”

I show Lily my phone. She frowns and scrolls.

All I can hope is that if he’s back in America, he’s going to that audition. And then hopefully to try to sort things out with his family.

“I’m so sorry.” She squeezes my hand. Generously, she gives me the last of the ice cream.

Miserable, I just stare at her, at a loss for words. How could Blake have come to mean so much so fast? It doesn’t make sense.

“Tell you what. I’ll order takeaway. We’ll eat far too much and stay up too late watching dreadful films, drinking wine. I promise not a single romance.”

“Good, because I can’t bear it.” I sigh, eating the last of the chocolate ice cream.

…

After a couple of days at Lily’s and a plumbing repair later, I’m back at Barnes Books. While I was away, the lorry came with the rest of my boxed-up stock. With Gemma’s help, we work to put the shop back together again. Being so busy at least keeps me from dwelling every waking moment on Blake.

I take a break to go through the post that Gemma’s brought in. Bills, junk mail…and a seemingly innocent letter till I open it up. The letterhead is from one of my competitors, a mega bookshop chain.

Dear Mr. Barnes,

We admire the work that you and your family have put into Barnes Books for over fifty years, a fixture in Soho. Your bookshop is a well-recognized brand.

To that end, we are pleased to offer you a bid for the shop, with financial details enclosed. We would like to operate this shop as a satellite location to our franchise, and hope that you would be willing to stay on as the branch manager for continuity.

Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Kind regards,

Percy Green

My eyes widen, chest too tight. Indignant and relieved, I stare at the stupid letter for a long time before shoving it in my ledger and slamming the drawer shut.

It could be an out, selling this place and walking away from the constant financial stress.

Except, I’d be letting my parents down. And letting myself down too, after everything I’ve worked for. And sacrificed.

It’d be failure.

But, if I take their offer, it’ll take care of the bills. I’d no longer have to worry about the next thing to break, because how on earth is an indie shop supposed to survive when there’s a major chain with every book known to humankind?

…

Aside from the new floors, the only new thing in the bookshop is the rich aubergine paint. The street’s restored back to its usual self, without sign of any filming-related inconveniences or hassle. It’s back to the usual hum of traffic and flocks of tourists during midday in the summer.

And my phone stays silent. No messages from Blake.

Alice Rutherford confirms that the filming’s wrapped when she sends me payment for using the shop as a film location and makes sure that the repairs are done to my satisfaction. Everything has a sense of finality to it.

As with the filming chaos, the heatwave’s also gone from the height of summer. Along with the heat sparked inside me that Blake brought into my life.

Sensing my dark mood, even Gemma doesn’t give me a hard time like usual as we work. And when I work on the poetry section, alone, kneeling on the floor, I find the book of poetry Blake returned that first day, complaining about the poet’s bad Twitter behavior. I flip it open and a piece of paper falls out.

It’s tough to get your attention, but a man’s gotta do what he must. Even if it that means putting Brideshead Revisited in the Comedy section and The Song of Achilles in Romance.

Call me sometime?

Followed by his initials and number.

Fuck.

And thank God it’s lunchtime and that Gemma’s gone out, so nobody sees me crumple alone in my shuttered shop. I slip the note into my pocket. Something I should have the good sense to throw away.

However, because I’m daft and a sentimental fool committed to self-torture, I keep not only the note but also the book of poetry safe up in my flat.

The sun is shining but it doesn’t reach me in August, the first stirrings of autumn in the air.

Later that afternoon, calmer and restored after some tea, my pocket buzzes. Checking my phone, there’s a text from Lily.

Don’t forget the private view tonight. Please come. You can bring a plus-one if you want. Or not. I’ll leave a couple of tickets at the box office under your name. Lxx

I would much rather run full tilt toward the typical introvert response, which is the opposite direction of a private view for Lily’s exhibition. I’m in no sort of mood for people, especially upbeat people. If the private view was guaranteed to be full of sullen, moody goths, I might be in for a round of emo and The Cure. If only they had cocktails tailored to that niche, something over the top like the Velvet Tear.

This is why I’m destined to be single forever from this point on.

No more men. No more heartache. No more putting myself on the line like that, opening myself up to more raw vulnerability, because it doesn’t pay off. I’m not cut out for this.

Gemma gives me side-eye. “Aubs? You’ve been staring at the Romance section for five minutes.”

I side-eye her right back. She’s right—I have been rooted in place, staring dejectedly at the wall of books I’m arranging. Foolishly I started another romance novel last night. This time, I found one with a man falling for another man, the poor arsehole. And yet I stayed up far too late reading.

“Not you too. That’s Mr. Barnes. Remember?”

“Chill.” Gemma shakes her head, her dark ponytail swinging. “I mean, you should be happy, right? The shop’s been fixed up. It’s gonna be ready to reopen in, like, a day or two.” She gazes at me. “And…I heard you were in the papers kissing Blake Sinclair.”

My face warms at the mention of his name. “Never mind Blake Sinclair.”

“That’s juicy, Aubs. Well done.” She looks pleased. “Why’re you upset?”

“Because tabloids. Because invasion of privacy?” I say immediately, getting worked up. Never mind the ache of missing Blake terribly.

She considers me. “I guess now that the filming’s done you won’t see him, huh.”

I scowl. “Let’s focus on the shop.”

There’s also still the not so trifling matter of the whopping council tax bill. It’ll be a bit better with the payout from filming. That’s for future Aubrey, not today’s Aubrey, who has an explosion of book boxes everywhere to deal with. Gemma’s hip-deep in sci-fi and fantasy.

“Reopening’s good at least?” she tries.

I chew my lip. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Gemma smiles at me. “So, good news. Cheer up.”

If only it was so easy to cheer up on command. Everything just seems duller. I stare down at my cuff watch, absently rubbing at it, and the hidden heart tattooed inside my wrist. At least I was clever about that: hearts were meant to be hidden.

“Any chance you want to go to a private view tonight?” I ask her. “I’m really not up for it.”

“Why, Aubrey, I didn’t think you felt that way about me,” she laughs, clutching at her heart in a faux swoon, an obvious effort to try to make me laugh. “I might need to tell my girlfriend you’re making a play for me.”

“What happened to the boyfriend? I’m not going to use the ticket, so you can take a plus one.”

“Oh, I still have him too, but he’s not my primary right now,” Gemma assures me easily, shelving a tome on dragons with a satisfying thump on the shelf. “Don’t worry. I’m hardly exclusive. Polyamory is where it’s at.”

My eyebrows climb. Imagine the heartache involved there for someone like me. “I think you’re made of stronger stuff than me. Power to you.”

“You should try it. You might even like it.”

My lips twitch. “Well. Do you and your partner or partners happen to want to go to a private view?”

She considers, rubbing the small of her back. “Well, Neil’s working. Jackie’s… I don’t know. I’ll text her. What’s the show, anyway?”

“Um.” Frowning, I shrug. “I don’t know the name of the exhibition, but it’s some edgy fashion thing with street art and punks?”

Gemma beams. “Brilliant. I’ll go if Jackie can make it.”

“Great,” I say, relieved. People successfully avoided. I’ll apologize to Lily. She’ll understand, won’t she?

“What will you do instead? Hot date?” She peers at me.

I snort, nodding at the mess around us. “No. I’ll just keep working. There’s loads to do.”

“That’s not very fun.”

“I’m Aubrey ‘No Fun’ Barnes, remember? Just keeping my reputation in check.”

Resigned, I sigh and reach for another armful of romance books. A cheerful, bright cover of a light-hearted romance is at the top of the stack. Hurriedly, I shelve it, safely out of view. Happy things remind me of Blake, and thinking of Blake’s just going to lead to more moping. I’ve spent the afternoon successfully avoiding thinking of him after the earlier poetry book debacle.

She tuts, hands on hips. “You seem even more out of sorts than normal.”

“Yeah. Speaking of reasons why,” I say, frowning at her, “by the way, there’s that whole issue about you signing the consent form for filming. That was terrible, Gemma. Like, the sort of thing people would get fired for.”

Gemma shrugs easily. “Look, I know it’s beyond what I’d normally do, but I knew that you really needed the money for the shop. And you won’t fire me—you need my help too much and can’t be arsed to train someone else.”

I sigh. “Fair enough. I guess that’s all true.”

“See?” She looks triumphant, holding an armful of books too.

“Just…don’t do that again? Please. I really can’t bear it.”

“I solemnly vow that if anyone comes in here wanting to turn the shop into a film set, I’ll send them straight to you.”

“Thank you.”

We work in silence, or near silence. The radio’s on, playing some rock tunes by Halfpenny Rise. The front door is open for fresh air but I have a rope across the door with a Temporarily Closed For Business sign hanging from it in Gemma’s best block printing.

As the afternoon passes, sultry with heat, Gemma leaves at 5:00 p.m. to go home to round up Jackie and get ready for the evening’s private view. I pop out for a quick kebab since I skipped lunch and get back to work right after, steadily working on the rare and collectible books section by the front counter. Slowly, the stacks of boxes everywhere are starting to thin, and the stack of flattened boxes is starting to grow to a respectable height in the middle of everything, where my entry table with featured books would ordinarily go. Bits of cardboard litter the floor, but they’ll be hoovered up soon enough.

“Knock knock,” calls an all too familiar male voice after 6:00 p.m. at the front door, wide open again for the evening breeze. “Can I come in? I hear the safe word’s Noble.”