An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone
Chapter Four
Adrenaline courses through me. I walk blindly through Soho for who knows how long despite the sweltering heat. Everything’s too near, the searing day clinging to my skin. Meanwhile, my brain careens inside my skull. No matter how far I walk, I can’t make sense of what I’ve just done.
WhoI’ve just done, actually.
One Blake Sinclair.
Stopping in the shade of a building, I drag my forearm across my brow in an effort to wipe away my perspiration. If the gesture could take away my thoughts too, so much the better.
Around me, the din of Soho continues. Tourists knot on pavements. Traffic stands mostly at a standstill. Heat rises in waves from the street.
Jesus. What just happened?
If I was religious, which I’m not, I would pray to a higher power for an intervention. For strength. Possibly even for absolution. But there’s none to be had today.
When I’m tired enough and resigned enough that I can’t escape my brain, even with a heatwave, I make my way back to the shop.
Pausing just before the entry, stalling, I rake a hand through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes. God, what must I look like? Not that I particularly care under ordinary circumstances what I look like. I have strawberry blond hair like my mum, which resists combing at the best of times.
That was terrible. Impulsive. Risky. Check, check, check. All of those things.
I mean, I know I’m clean after my last Grindr hookup on a lonely night’s fit of desperation a couple of months back. I regularly get tested at the clinic. Everything’s fine on my end.
But is Blake careful? I mean, being famous, even as a triple-threat, C-list celebrity, he’s guaranteed to see a lot more filth and debauchery than any London bookseller. Even in Soho. Particularly when the bookseller is me.
I look at my reflection in the glass-paneled door of the shop, at the green painted trim needing a fresh coat. The carefully hand-lettered sign says open and the other sign reads 10–5 daily, closed Sundays.
Definitely stalling.
The problem is that Gemma’s inside. Even though I’m the shop owner and she’s my employee, she would doubtless start in on questions about why I was gone so long, why I’m acting weirder than usual, and all of that.
Good points, to be fair.
I definitely don’t have the presence of mind to come up with any kind of convincing cover story. There’s no way I’m going to reveal a hint of the truth. Not to her. Not ever. Because, well, that’s beyond the usual realm of employer-employee relations. Even if I’m only a few years older than her at most, and everything else about our working relationship has questionable boundaries on her end. Cue our odd friendship. I may grumble, but we have each other’s backs. Still, I don’t want her to know. This is too private.
I fish my keys out of my pocket to unlock the nondescript green door next to the shop’s entry. It’s the alternative entrance to upstairs, which is the usual stockroom access, and now the entry to my makeshift bedsit. It’s had a checkered history, my bedsit. Supposedly my parents lived up there before I was born, running the shop. And the room was old even back then. Doubtless it’s full of original lead piping from when piping was first invented at the dawn of time, eventually followed by the invention of electricity a few minutes past that. Likely the building has wiring which should have been replaced decades ago. I ought to look into that for the insurance, and general safety.
Pushing the wooden door open with its usual creak, I flip on the light in the cramped entry at the bottom of the too narrow, too steep stairway and make my way up through the sweltering dead air trapped there, walking through the gruesome tickle of spiderwebs. Hopefully, no adventurous spiders have seized the opportunity to crawl over me.
At the top of the landing, I unlock the second door into the stockroom and lock it once more after me. I push the laundry basket out of my way with a toe, then carry on through the corridor. My clothing clings to me, and I strip down as I beeline to the equally cramped shower room, separate from the toilet room beside it. It’s so small I can put a hand on each wall. Wedging myself into the shower stall, I turn on the water, letting the pipes shriek for a moment before a spray of cool water splatters feebly. I douse myself in cold water, or as cold as it can manage today.
Come back to reality, Aubrey.
No film star would want you anyway. Even if you wanted a film star. Safest to forget about his all-American looks, the ease in his own skin. The way he looked at you with a ready smile when you showed up like a buffoon in his trailer, catching him half dressed. Almost as if he’d been expecting you to stop by, like you were a friend or someone who mattered to him.
Not as though we kept having unfortunate encounters all day.
And then—
No. Not going there.
Every time my mind went there, which was often, I scrubbed myself all the more vigorously. As though a shower could wash away the memory, even if it could wash away the sweat from the day, from—
Right. Toweling off, I struggle as I stand staring at the heap of clothes on the floor of my stockroom home. If I go downstairs in another set of clothes, Gemma will be suspicious. She’ll be suspicious why I showered. I mean, does she notice if I’ve showered? I don’t doubt I’ll get some commentary if I go back into the shop sopping wet.
I mean, it’s damned hot out there. Even for London. So I needed a shower in the middle of the day. Maybe she’ll buy it?
Probably not. She has a sixth sense.
So I dress in my slightly damp clothes and hope for the best when I go back downstairs. I’ll simply have to avoid her for the rest of the day.
…
It would be a lie that I walk in through the front door of Barnes Books with my head held high, and with Eli’s—or Blake Sinclair’s—confidence, like I own the joint. I do, but that gives me no strength today.
Instead, in my effort to avoid Gemma, I embrace hiding. I slink into the shop from the back stairs down to the pocket-sized kitchen. It’s generous to call it that, a nook fashioned into a makeshift kitchen, with a tiny sink and microwave and hotplate. Adjacent is my tiny office and overflow stockroom, partitioned off with a paisley green curtain. Even that looks wilted in the heat of the day.
I flip on the fan and park myself in front of it, both for the airflow and also in the hopes it will dry my hair enough just in case Gemma pays attention to me. Sitting down at my desk, I turn on the computer. Work in the office might also help me put some distance between me and what just happened this afternoon. There are a few emails: a special-order request, another email asking if there’s a certain book in stock. I get through them all too quickly.
I check my calendar and sigh. There’s yet another problem. In two weeks’ time, it’s my friend Ryan’s birthday. Which means a party. Which means a gift. If only there was an occasion gift for your ex’s new lover.
I mean, it’s not Ryan’s fault. Ryan’s lovely. Eli didn’t cheat on me. I didn’t cheat on him. Everyone’s perfectly agreeable. They look to be very well suited to each other. If only I could take the high road and move on, but I’m evidently not cut out for that.
I screw up my face. Ryan was my friend first. We met one day a few years back, when I blew a tire cycling home one night, going back to my old flat that I had with Eli. Ryan was also cycling home, living not far from me. At least he happened to be a prepared cyclist. He helped me with my bike and we ended up going for a pint, Eli joining us. That was before the accident.
Chewing my lip, I idly browse online for gifts. Getting a book would be a cop-out. I need to get something that’s artfully casual, not like I’m still obsessing over Eli.
I need something personal for Ryan, but not too personal. Something that Ryan would like. Something not stupid. A gift card is another cop-out. A card seems both too sincere and not enough. Like I forgot the gift.
The best I can do with my online searches is find advice on what not to buy your exes. Apparently, jewelry is out. Luckily, I’m not wanting a ring for Ryan. Or for Eli. No flowers. A T-shirt? Clothes are hard.
At least I still have two weeks to figure this out.
While I look for both appropriate and inappropriate gifts for Ryan, a new email chimes.
My inbox has a fresh message from one of the major chains about their July sale. The problem is I haven’t signed up to any mailing lists, so someone has done this on my behalf. Probably somebody’s sick corporate joke from one of the mega shops down the street.
Scowling, I hit delete.
Like I can afford to have a sale to compete. Shit. Another thing to stress about. If they’re having one, customers will expect it from me too.
Instead of a brilliant retail comeback, I do something even more daft. I search for Blake Sinclair. Worse, it’s an image search. And I gawp at the screen full of Blake Sinclairs beaming into the camera lens. Maybe he’s obscure, but there’s definitely proof of life out there.
Against my better judgment, I click on one of the top results: Instagram.
The top picture is of a shirtless Blake taking a selfie on a sunny balcony. The man’s fit. In the American sense. And the British sense too, I suppose: he’s well-toned and gorgeous and fuck, there went my resolve not to look.
Apparently, I’m doomed. If only I could give Ryan my brain as a gift. He might make better use of it. Oh well.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, along with the filming notice. I crumple the paper, dropping it on the desk. It’s a text from Mum, but I can’t face her quite yet.
Not when I can still taste Blake on my lips. Even post-shower.
I pop into the front of the shop where Gemma’s holding things down without any signs of the horsemen of the apocalypse having arrived for sales bargains—yet. She looks at me from the front display table where she’s neatening up stacks of books.
Before she has a quip about why I’m freshly showered in the middle of the afternoon, I approach, keys in hand. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” I manage, handing her the keys. “I’m not feeling well.”
Which is a fair and true point. I have a serious case of Blake Sinclair to shake.
“’Kay,” she says easily, patting my arm reassuringly. “I’ll close the shop tonight.”
With a nod, I disappear back inside. Definitely not with another furtive trawl of Blake’s Instagram, or wondering about what might have happened next if I’d stayed longer in his trailer.
…
Sunday promises to be more offensively hot than Saturday. Because I live alone and there’s no one to judge me, I decide to get ice cream for breakfast. I venture to the nearby corner shop, safely away from the location of the filming. All of my Blake-related lusting and angsting last night kept me up late, and even with the smother of the day, I slept in.
Now, chocolate ice cream melts on my tongue.
I go to the coffee shop for a flat white to bring back. My friend Lily’s gotten me addicted to them, with all of her trips to America and savvy to the latest things, right down to coffee fashion.
Even though Barnes Books is closed today to the public, it doesn’t mean I get the day off work. It’s just a different sort of work. Ice cream down and some coffee in me, I’m as ready as it gets to face the day. I turn on the radio and there’s a countdown of the top songs of the week. They’re up to number seventeen, a track from London’s Halfpenny Rise, a friend’s band, a great showing from Soho.
There’s far too much hoovering of area rugs with my vacuum that spits more than sucks. Dusting brings a barrage of sneezes after a thorough once-over of everything with my wool duster, a splurge in the cleaning product department. The duster’s from a foray into a zero-waste shop that Ryan took me into once. I didn’t have the heart to come away empty-handed with all of their environmental initiatives and earnest looks.
Once the work out in the heat of the afternoon finally wraps up, and another cold shower and a takeaway sandwich later, I sit down for the bookkeeping. Which amounts to me tracking things in a written ledger like my mum taught me, and her dad taught her. It’s straightforward enough, since I don’t exactly have high volume sales in the bookshop. Not like Foyles or Waterstones or the actual Barnes and Noble.
I go to the kitchen for water, only to find out that the wobbly faucet has only become wobblier and is now leaky. Fuck. I dig around under the sink for my toolbox.
Scowling, I fish out a wrench and try to tighten the fastener around the neck of the faucet. I’m no builder, but by God, I’ll fix this.
With a final turn of the wrench and a metallic wallop on the side for good measure, I turn on the tap. Water squirts out the side in an alarming manner, from a place water has no business to be spouting.
“Motherfucker.”
After shutting the faucet off, I loft the wrench with more force than needed into the toolbox. There’s a satisfying clatter of metal.
Seizing on the duct tape, I tear off a length and start winding it viciously around the faucet.
Standing back, I look at my haphazard taping job and try the tap again. Water pours as and when it should. Triumphant, I sit down at the kitchen table with a fresh glass of water. Successful repair completed. Take that, shit plumbing.
I trace condensation on my glass with a fingertip, leaning the back of my head against the wall beneath a framed poster of the Sex Pistols, bought by my dad for my mum a few lifetimes back. Supposedly it was some private joke between them that I didn’t want to know. But it’s still there. And even after he passed, it’s left up because neither one of us has the heart to take it down.
When I go back to the office to shut everything down properly for the afternoon, I can’t help another quick peek at Blake Sinclair’s Instagram, quickly becoming a new reward for every task I finish this weekend. Today, he’s shirtless in Hyde Park, all gleaming teeth and impressive chest. Behind him, the sky is a stunning blue with a filter that brings out his eyes.
Gulping, I shut down the app quickly. Even so, I can still see his incredible body, his defined muscles—and still taste our urgent kiss.