An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Six

When I return to Barnes Books after drinks, Gemma’s locked everything up for the night. Down the street, there’s still activity around the trailers. Commuters grumble their way home through public transport and pavements in Soho. The street’s alive with the evening theatergoing crowd. One intrepid cyclist maneuvers through traffic in bright yellow for visibility.

Once inside the shop, the air is still and hot. Flipping on a fan and parking myself in front of it, I gaze over at the small selection of cards that I have in a display by the entry. I’ve made a point to stock cards from London-based designers. There must be something in there I can use for Blake.

Going to the rack, there’s an assortment of the usual themes: happy birthday cards and sympathy cards, good luck cards and thank you cards. Plus, there’s a selection of blank cards. There’s no occasion card for a spontaneous blow job or to thank someone for the flowers that follow.

The obvious choice is a thank you card. Sign my name and it’s done. Except…that’s a cop-out. My gut twists at the thought. I hesitate over a thank you card before returning to the blank cards. I’ll make it personal. But which one?

I pluck one out, a pen and ink illustration of Soho. At least that’s appropriate. Cheerful-looking and bright. People like cheerful. The more conventional choice would be one of the cards with flowers on the front, but it doesn’t feel right.

Retreating to the fan by the front counter, I retrieve a fountain pen from the drawer. Now comes the hardest part: what to say.

There’s the simple and direct: Thanks for the flowers. Neutral. Nobody could take fault with that acknowledgment. Except…it has no soul.

Another take could be: Thanks for the flowers, they’re beautiful like you. I flush. Not a chance. Far, far too earnest.

Or maybe: Thanks for the beautiful arrangement. I’m sorry I left so quickly.

Which… I think that might be the way forward. Because all of that is true. And even though that apology makes me feel vulnerable, I imagine how he must have felt after I fled. Probably a bit shit, to be honest. Which makes me feel shit, because honestly? That’s the last thing I want him to feel.

Gulping, I write that last message into the card. At least my penmanship is decent. Which leads me smack into another problem. How to sign? First initial only? Before I can think too much about it, I add my phone number at the bottom.

Just in case he actually wanted to talk to me again.

I mean, if he had wanted, he could have put his own number on the card. Though, that’s probably risky for a celebrity. Even a third-string celebrity as he claims to be. Who knows who wrote the card? Did he write it himself? Or did someone write it for him? Privacy must be a thing.

Well, the good news about me being a nobody is that it doesn’t matter so much if my number’s out there.

But a card feels woefully inadequate after the flowers he sent. Obviously, the flowers are spendy, and by comparison, I don’t have any sort of budget for a grand gesture. Or even a medium gesture. However, I do like to make things.

And so I go upstairs to my tiny flat and retrieve a felt flower I made as an experiment. A smaller one will fit inside the envelope if I squash it, so I do and it fits. Before I can think about it any longer, I seal the card. On the envelope, I carefully write Blake’s name. When I do, a thrill runs up my spine, leaving me in goose bumps. Like he doesn’t even need to be present for my body to respond.

Shaking my head, I put the card aside and find the blank contract. With a deep breath, I sign the papers and stuff them into an envelope. God, I hope I don’t regret this. But the idea of helping save the shop, helping Mum, and the promise of seeing Blake again is too much to pass up.

…

At seven the next morning, I’m full of second thoughts when I’m startled awake by a sharp rapping on the front door. After throwing on clothes in record time, I hurry downstairs.

Sun streams through the shop’s paned glass door. I meet Alice Rutherford, flanked by her crew, at the entry to the shop. Bleary-eyed, this is no sort of hour for any normal human. I haven’t even put on the kettle and had my first cup of tea yet to make the day civil.

I unlock the glass door and push it open with its usual squeak and ringing of bells.

They all hustle in past me. A woman with green hair eyes the bells critically, reaching up to silence them.

Yesterday evening after the catch-up with Lily, I dropped off the contract and card with the film’s security people. The guard recognized me from before and only grumbled a small amount about being asked to drop the envelopes off for me, which he seemed to like better than me going in to hand-deliver the pair of envelopes without an invitation.

Privately, I must confess I—or some small part of me—was hoping he would bin everything. Then I would have tried and failed and life would move on.

However, when I sent the note to Alice stating she could come by anytime to talk about logistics, I didn’t expect her to turn up at the crack of dawn, raring to go. So much for writing daft things because apparently people take them quite literally when I was just being polite.

Does that mean Blake got his card? Oh God. What have I done?

“Good morning, Aubrey,” Alice says brightly, handing me a coffee as soon as I’ve opened the door to her. Behind her, the city awakens with the hum of traffic snaking past. “I’ve brought you a vanilla latte. Extra hot. And also my backup. Right on schedule.”

She glances at her watch with approval.

I flip on the overhead lights with a wince. “I take it that you received the updated contract, then.” I stand back as a crew of five take over, all purpose and clipboards and tape measures, already snapping photos on phones and having animated discussions. They gesture and wave hands and take notes. They even pause to take a photo of me, where I doubtless look wide-eyed and startled, perfect for a murder wall on some crime show.

“Yes, I did. Thank you. Did you get my text about the seven a.m. start? This place is so perfect.” Alice beams, gazing around. At the moment, everything’s still in order as it should be. “We’re delighted.”

I blink, my mind still muddled. Text? I sip the coffee in a desperate attempt to wake up enough to process the conversation. “There’s no bookshop murder, is there? In the film?”

“I’ve told you, it’s a rom-com.” Alice pats my arm reassuringly. Her ponytail swings. “And it will be good. You’ll see. The actors are excellent and we have a fantastic crew. We have a few scenes to shoot in here.”

“A few?”

“Oh yes. There’s the meet-cute, for starters. And the romantic leads bumping into each other again.”

I’m not entirely sure what she’s on about, except this all feels a bit too close to home. Well, it’s literally my home, I suppose. And far too close to what passes for my regular life.

“I see.” Which I don’t, but I don’t want to confess that either.

“If you sign an NDA, I’ll even let you have a peek at my script,” Alice says generously.

“NDA?” It sounds like some kind of punk band, but I don’t think that’s what she means. Some lawyer thing, I think. Eli would be useful on this point.

If only I had my tea. I swallow a mouthful of coffee. Too hot as it sears on the way down. On the other hand, I’m definitely wide awake now.

Alice laughs with delight. “A non-disclosure agreement. Where you are sworn to secrecy about not revealing what’s happening here. I mean, you’ll need to sign one anyway today.”

“Another contract?”

“Oh yes, we have plenty of them. But don’t worry. We also have excellent insurance coverage. Any damages will be covered.”

“You expect damages?” Oh no. “I didn’t agree to damages.”

“We don’t plan on any. But it’s always a risk. And we’ll put everything back exactly as it is when it’s done.”

I gulp down more latte in the hopes it’s an elixir of strength. Probably it would have been better if it had been a punk band after all. I’d at least know what to expect.

“I’m running a business—”

“That’s why we’re compensating you for the days you’ll need to be closed.” Alice gives me her best reassuring look. I set my coffee down to rub my temples, a foreboding ache creeping in. “There’s not too much to do today. Painting and moving furniture around, and we’ll load a lorry—that’s what you call trucks, isn’t it—”

“You must keep the books in order,” I say desperately, watching two men nearby picking up books from the shelf and flipping through them. If I had any control in this situation, it’s slipping away, fast. “It’s terribly important. They need to be kept alphabetical—by section.”

“And that’s why we’re taking so many photos. We’ll spend the day getting the set ready and cleaning up. Then tomorrow morning they’ll do a rehearsal and start filming later that day.”

“How many days do you need?”

“It’s hard to say. It depends on how smoothly the filming goes. Up to a week, I’d say. No more than that. I mean, we return to America in two weeks, so it wouldn’t be longer than that. We have a tight schedule to keep.”

“A week!” I stare at her. She can’t be serious. How am I supposed to put up with this nonsense for a week? But…extra money. That would be a good thing, right? What if they tear the place apart, like what happened to my friend Murphy at his cycle shop a few streets over when there was filming two years ago? I struggle with myself.

In the meantime, she rifles through a stack of papers and hands over some to me. “Here’s your NDA to review and sign.”

Clutching the document, I watch as crates are shuffled in with painting supplies, and another set of empty crates where someone starts to box up the cookery section. Unable to bear it, I flee to the kitchen for tea and biscuits for distraction, a rising commotion behind me, and a wild thundering inside my skull.

The rest of the day passes in chaos.

I call Gemma in early to help supervise the filming carnage, her penance for her part in helping unleash this filming hell.

I’m on one side of the shop. She’s on the other by the entry, looking authoritative with her arms folded across her chest like some kind of punk enforcer, a fountain ponytail spilling down over her shoulder. Opposite her is someone from the film’s official security detail, evidently guarding the honor of the film crew. He’s not any sort of defense against the havoc unfolding in my shop right now. Plus, in the unlikely event of a brawl to defend my—or my shop’s—honor, my money’s on Gemma.

Avoiding eye contact with her, he toys with his handheld radio, unleashing the occasional screech of feedback enough to set my teeth on edge.

Maybe in truth everyone needs to be protected from me.

Hour by hour, my shop’s undone. Bookcases are carted out. Other bookcases are tarted up. Props are carted in. Walls are painted. Would my father have approved of aubergine? I chew my lip watching the mint green walls disappear. They’re not allowed to paint the oak bookcases or trim on pain of death.

Warily, I sit sentinel at the front counter for as long as I can while people paint and polish, buff and sand. What would my relatives and the Barneses before me make of such a thing unfolding in the family shop?

They’re closing in on the front counter. There, I defend Blake’s bouquet with the ferocity of a cornered animal like on some wildlife show. I let my guard down for half a moment and someone’s hands are on the arrangement.

“Back off!” I snap as I shove myself protectively in front of the flowers as a human shield. The crew member recoils and slinks off. Pleased, I fold my arms over my chest and stand my ground. Flowers safe, I refuse to move to give them another go until a commotion at the entry catches my attention.

The door is propped open for airflow given the paint fumes, which waft most effectively into my flat and promise a headache later.

“Aubrey!” calls Eli. “Security won’t let me in. I need a safe word. A password. Something!”

The cheek. Rolling my eyes, I get up. And freeze. Shit. The flowers. If he sees the flowers, he’ll have questions, but it’s impossible to hide them. They’re rather large and showy and bright. In the chaos of everything, if I’m lucky he’ll think it’s part of the filming prep, even though the place otherwise resembles a building site at the moment.

“It’s Noble.” I make myself go toward the door. I glance at the actual security guard opposite Gemma. She’s giving Eli stink-eye, something I’m privately very pleased about. “He’s fine. He’s with me—well, adjacent to me, anyway.”

Eli looks stunned as I wave him in when the security guard steps back to let him pass. His mouth hangs open slightly as he takes in the spectacle, and a spectacle it is. There’s people and crates and equipment everywhere. He’s dressed in a suit, and judging by the angle of the sunlight spilling through the front window, he must be on his way home for the day. Which also means that this nonsense has been going on all day and should end soon. Maybe.

“What…” Eli manages, still casting looks around while the crew works industriously. Someone totes in lumber. I don’t want to know.

“Filming. It’s contagious, apparently. Green books are a gateway.” My lips twitch.

He gives me a sharp look, startled. “I had no idea. Jesus. How long has this been going on?”

“Since approximately seven this morning. Give or take a few minutes.”

“You…you…agreed to this? How did you manage this since Saturday?” Eli asks. At last he gazes at me, in disbelief. He loosens his tie, sliding it off and folding it neatly to tuck away into a pocket. He undoes the top button of his pink shirt. He must be sweltering in that lawyer gear.

I chew my lip. “Well, I didn’t agree to this. Not the first time. Gemma did. Allegedly.”

He lets out a low whistle. “I bet that went over well.”

“I…”

In the midst of the chaos and drop cloths, sat on the front counter with my ledger and laptop, is Blake’s magnificent bouquet. The blooms are dramatic, all pinks and purples and blues. It’s impossible to miss the posh flowers.

Eli blinks. “What’s…that?”

“Flowers,” I say helpfully, gesturing at the bouquet. “You can tell by the petals. And the green bits.”

My sarcasm is lost on him. What a shame.

“For the filming?” he asks, still staring at the extravagant bouquet, which really is out of place in the upside-down shop.

I hesitate a bit too long. My lips twitch, an unwanted tell. “Not…quite. Sort of. It’s related?”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s complicated.” Flushing, I look away. God, stupid complexion. If only I could keep a poker face.

Eli takes me in, perplexed. “You’re all right?”

“Aside from the fact it’s hotter than the fucking sun in here and I’m high on paint fumes and my family’s shop is in bits? I’m perfect.”

“I just saw the trailers and people outside the shop. There’s a catering tent.”

“So I hear.”

We’re quiet.

“They’re very nice flowers,” Eli admits, bemused. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“They are,” I agree. “I’m going to take them upstairs in a few minutes before they do whatever they’re going to do to my front counter.”

He fidgets with his tie in his pocket. I continue to chew my lip.

A crew member comes up to us, interrupting our prolonged moment of awkwardness that neither one of us is particularly enjoying. I’m petty enough that I’m enjoying watching Eli’s bewilderment about the arrangement on the counter. On the other hand, I’m annoyed that he doesn’t immediately think that someone would want to send me flowers. Someone other than him.

“We’re ready to start on the front counter,” says the woman with green hair.

“We’ll be out of your way in a minute,” I tell her.

“I’m going,” Eli says. “Are you staying here tonight?”

I frown. As if I have a reserve of cash just for premium—or non-premium—London hotels. “Why wouldn’t I? I live here.”

“Because of all this…whatever this is.” He gestures around.

“They’re not filming in my flat. Their voyeurism only goes so far.”

He’s quiet. “If you need anything, or if they do take over your flat, call me.”

“You’ll chase them out?” I laugh.

He brightens at that, his expression softening. The damn man is too attractive for his own good, and he knows how to use it. “I just might.”

I swallow. “You can’t be my defender anymore.”

I hate saying it, acknowledging that truth out loud. If only I could swallow this moment down, keep it in a private place away from light and scrutiny. Granted, he’s got a track record of Aubrey defense. From dealing with arseholes at school to uni shenanigans together at UCL, Eli was always predictable and reliably in my corner.

“I suppose you’re right.”

And for a moment, Eli looks a bit deflated, slump-shouldered with his hands in his trouser pockets. Of course he looks handsome as ever, golden hair slightly disheveled from the heat, a hint of stubble along his jaw. There’s always something appealing about him, no matter how irritating he is at times, even with the past championing.

“Ryan’ll be waiting,” he says.

“I know.”

About then, there’s another sort of commotion at the door. Thankfully, I don’t hear any more about safe—or unsafe—words. Which is something to thank some higher order of deity for, one who manages texts and looks over hapless booksellers.

Gemma’s too-cheerful voice rings through the chaos. “Of course Aubrey would love to help you.”

Both Eli and I turn as if we’re one to see Blake Sinclair weaving his way easily through the upheaval, deftly striding toward me through the builders and their kit, under Gemma’s gleeful watch. Even her new BFF, the security guard, watches with interest.

Oh shit.

Blake’s tan has only deepened since I last saw him, his tropical flamingo shirt cheerful as though we’re in Florida or somewhere deeply exotic and not at all like central London. Behind him, feedback still shrieks over the guard’s radio. The heat of the day rolls in through the open door. As he walks, the black lanyard around his neck swings with his filming ID. He grins at me as he approaches with an easy nod at Eli.

“Hey.” Blake stands with easy confidence, slightly shorter than Eli but somehow even more of a presence. His gaze goes from me over to the flowers then back to me with a slightly wider smile.

Beside me, Eli stiffens ever so slightly, his expression quickly covering any hint of surprise with cool lawyer facade. Not noticeable to anyone else, but enough for me to pick up on that he’s recognized Blake Sinclair at the very least. And that Blake’s looking at me in a way that’s not entirely the sort of usual way customers do.

“Hi.” I gulp, palms already slick with sweat. Unobtrusively, I attempt to dry them on my trousers. Dear God, let’s hope he spares us the round of awkward greetings. What do Americans do? Especially in already awkward social encounters, the dreaded post-blowjob-bolt-and-apology-flowers gaff.

Eli’s eyes narrow ever so slightly at Blake.

My face burns. Meanwhile, Blake is the epitome of cool despite the oppressive heat of the day and my unfortunate unraveling.

Please, on the deities that watch over booksellers, don’t mention the flowers right now.

“How can I help?” I manage, somehow keeping my voice from breaking like a teenager’s with emo angst.

“Shop’s closed,” says Eli abruptly, who evidently gives no fucks for celebs and is getting weirdly…possessive?

I frown slightly. “No, no,” I say to Blake. “I’d like to help.”

Regardless of Eli’s terribly unsubtle attempt to brush Blake off, I’m not going to be influenced by his bad manners. My gaze flits from the flowers to Blake.

Blake’s smile widens ever so slightly. “We all ought to make proper introductions, don’t you think?”

Oh shit, the awkward greetings of doom. Here we go.

“I suppose. Since you’re becoming a regular,” I acknowledge awkwardly.

God, is he becoming a regular? Better not focus on that.

“Blake Sinclair.” He sticks out his hand, looking at me in a way that melts my insides.

With a hard gulp, I dare touch his hand and it’s everything I can muster to keep from yanking my hand back with the thrill of touching him again. My body betrays me. I open my mouth and have to try twice for words to come out. It’s highly unlikely this theater is convincing Eli, who obviously knows something’s up, judging by his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Aubrey Barnes.” It takes all of my powers of concentration to remember my name and not just echo Blake’s.

We stare at each other for a moment too long before Eli coughs.

“And, ah, this is Elliot Gladstone,” I say quickly.

They shake hands in a slightly aggro manner, some sort of reluctant acknowledgment on Eli’s part and undaunted good cheer on Blake’s. If Blake’s surprised or caught off guard, he doesn’t show it—but then again, he’s an actor.

“So,” Blake says, focusing his devastating gaze on me. From the corner of my eye, I swear Eli’s glowering at the flowers. Could be a trick of some feral, hopeful part of my imagination that wouldn’t be sorry to see Eli jealous. Is that so wrong? “You said you could help?”

“Um. I can try,” I say, with complete confidence, as though my shop isn’t in shambles and my ex-boyfriend isn’t shooting proverbial daggers at him. “Yes. How can I help?”

Perhaps better luck with round two. Standing tall, I keep my ground, ignoring Eli.

“I’ve come for a poetry book,” says Blake eagerly.

Part of me, a big part of me, suppresses a groan, sigh, or some sort of visceral poetry-related physical response. “Not the one you returned, I hope?”

I sincerely hope that’s not what he’s after, amusing himself at my expense. Also, there’s the simple and practical fact that the poetry section’s been boxed up and carted off to who knows where—and Alice Rutherford’s team has the box list in their care.

“Oh no. I’ve actually come for poetry recommendations.” Blake gives me a hopeful look. He glances around what once was a nice shop, if I can say that much. “But I see things have taken a turn.”

“Evidently,” I say wryly.

“Well. Guess I’ll need to come back another time. Try my luck then.”

“I suppose that’s a sensible plan,” I say gamely, as though I’m totally up on sensible plans, especially around poetry supply and demand for American customers.

“Great. Better get going, then.” Blake grins. “Nice flowers, by the way.”

That does it. Words escape me. I do my best to channel the endearing on-screen charm of, say, Hugh Grant or Timothée Chalamet, but there’s no such luck.

“Who sent them?” he asks. If I didn’t know better, his eyes widened ever so slightly.

The cheek.

“Er…the kind people at Horse and Hound. They’re dedicated to their retailers, you see. Fine British magazine, actually,” I say. “It was either that or send round a gift pony. And you know what they say about looking gift horses in the mouth. They’re also terribly behaved in shops.”

“Good intel. I’ll need to check that out. I mean, who doesn’t like horses? Or hounds?” With that, Blake nods at Eli, but he can’t stop smiling either. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” says Eli neutrally. Unfortunately, I can’t elbow him without it being obvious. With any luck, he can feel my invisible elbow in his pancreas.

Blake beams and heads out, head held high. Also a fine opportunity for me to admire his arse in faded blue jeans, but that’s neither here nor there. Something Eli doesn’t need to know about, certainly.

Once Blake’s safely away, Eli hovers for a few more minutes till he finally takes off for home.

Taking a deep breath, I gather up Blake’s bouquet and head upstairs to my flat, which does indeed smell of paint fumes and freshly sawn wood. I set the bouquet down on the desk, staring at it.

My stomach twists at the thought of Blake potentially being in my shop again. For poetry. Or…even on set.

If he’s even in this scene.

He won’t be.

I flop down bonelessly into the sofa in front of the fan that puffs air. I’m not sure how I feel about the possibility—disappointment or relief.