An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Seven

By seven o’clock the next morning, my shop’s tarted up. Not in an unbecoming way, for the record. Yes, it’s still my shop, but a posh, film-friendly version ready for the limelight, and even the odd close-up.

The film crew’s taken out half of the usual shelving, which ordinarily leans tall and close, instead leaving shorter oak bookcases in the middle of the room. The sunlight pours in across the red area rug, a bath of light. The shop feels warm and inviting. Every surface has been touched up, repaired, and painted. The wood floors have been polished, the carpets washed, the windows gleam. The deep aubergine paint smells fresh. And it looks expensive, with that color saturation. They haven’t started scenting paint yet like exotic perfumes, but eau de la bookshop could absolutely become a thing.

Having given Alice a key to the shop yesterday, I start my day by hearing voices downstairs, which spurs me into action. After a quick shower, I join the gathering crowd in the shop. Different people, talking logistics and filming angles and the like, all broad gestures and sweeping arms.

I hang back. Alice joins me, handing over a takeaway cup of coffee, with a sleeve from the café down the street.

“Flat white for you. And, by the way, please feel free to use the catering tents since we’re causing no end of disruption. It’s the least we can do.” She gives me a lanyard with my own laminated identification card on the front. “You’ll need this to get back inside if you leave. If you stay for the filming in the afternoon, you’ll be let back in between shots. You’ll have to be absolutely silent, but you’re welcome to watch them film.”

I stare at the card. There’s the predictable photograph of me: reddish hair in unruly waves, a hint of my nose ring, full lips. At least they’ve caught me rightfully looking skeptical as one might expect when a camera appeared uninvited in my face yesterday, like a snap from the ID paparazzi. Clearly, I’m not ready for the media or social media or, frankly, any sort of press. I’ll leave that to the professionals. I hang the lanyard around my neck and taste the coffee. It’s excellent. Maybe this won’t be so terrible after all.

“Thanks.”

She smiles. “What do you think?”

As I gaze around the shop, I can’t help but notice in prime view is the artful arrangement of the green books they purchased on one of the low oak bookcases. At least they’re getting a moment in the limelight.

“It’s actually not bad.” I give her a wry smile and shrug of my shoulder. “Any damages?”

“None to report. Don’t worry, I’d tell you if there were.”

Relieved, I nod. That’s something, at least.

We hear new voices from beyond the open door, laughter ringing out.

“Come on through.” Gemma’s voice carries from outside, where she’s refereeing traffic at the front door with security. She was here before I came down to start the day, giving anyone who would listen a full report of the breakfast options she’d already enjoyed at the nearby catering tent. I can just see her from where I stand, but not who she’s talking to.

“The actors,” says Alice. “On time for their seven-thirty call.”

The actors troop in on schedule, a surprisingly rowdy set for the unholy hour. A couple of them are quieter, but the group of them are exceedingly awake. And there, in the knot of effervescent enthusiasm, is Blake Sinclair.

I scald my tongue on the coffee, splutter, and try to cover as Alice gives me side-eye.

“Wrong pipe,” I manage hoarsely when I can speak again, not looking at Alice as my eyes water.

But I am, however, looking at Blake.

God, he’s got that gleaming grin from his social media, the grin he unleashed on me last Saturday, which inspired me to unprecedented impulsiveness. He’s in a navy jacket and T-shirt, looking photo-ready.

Someone calls for Alice across the room, and I busy myself by my made-over oak counter, which is looking far more posh than usual. Studiously, I shuffle papers and retrieve my ledger, which obviously is an integral part of my business that I need to deal with right now. I pretend to look things up, cross-checking with my planner for extra effect.

“Hey,” says a now familiar Southern male voice very near beside me.

My head shoots up. I jostle my coffee as I reach to snap the ledger shut. Blake’s hand is out like a shot to grab my coffee before there’s disaster.

“Motherfucker.” I back up literally into the counter and jar myself to 110 percent alertness, my body so taut it could snap with a hint more strain.

Blake’s grin is huge. “Good to see you too. I need a nickname for you, but I don’t have one as catchy.”

I flush scarlet. A furtive glance out of the corner of my eye shows that the full-on filming shenanigans have everyone else busy enough that no one pays attention to me dying not so subtly of dire embarrassment.

“Shit. I mean, sorry. Fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I gasp, then force myself to take in one deep breath. Which leads to another, and another while I white-knuckle grip the counter.

Blake looks from my hands to meet my gaze.

God, he’s devastating. The bluest eyes, and such an unrestrained grin. Not overblown, but as though he’s genuinely entertained by my lack of suaveness. At least someone’s enjoying it. As for me, I’m trying—and failing again—to keep it together in front of him.

Behind us, the din continues. The director’s arrived, and they’re gearing up for the rehearsal, bringing in and arranging chairs. But I don’t register anything beyond that.

Instead, everything’s Blake. The air. The sky. The swelter of heat that rises from the core of my stomach in waves, and beyond. My chest is tight. This is what suffocating must feel like. Euphoria. All of it, at once. Once, I was chill. Not now.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi.” He’s perfectly calm, letting me calibrate to his presence. Like he knows if he makes any sudden moves, I’ll flee like prey, an impala bounding on the Serengeti to escape the lion. Or more likely, run out the front door into traffic. Or possibly up the back steps to go hide in my flat.

Even so, no more Animal Planet for me.

Shit. He’s not smiling. Why isn’t he smiling? It’s got to be because of Eli yesterday. Eli ruins everything.

Or…maybe he just realizes this is all too strange. Him being an actor, and me being a bookseller.

“Thanks for the card,” he murmurs, mimicking my pose by standing beside me at the counter, leaning his forearms on the edge. So near I smell his posh cologne. “That handmade flower was my favorite part.”

I can’t speak. Not for a long moment. Till I remember what breathing is. “Thanks. For the real flowers. Obviously. They’re so…so—”

He peers at me, lifting his eyebrows at me in a way that’s subtle and truly devastating, cursed things. “So—”

“—beautiful,” I say in a rush, dizzy.

His grin is wicked. “Not as beautiful as you,” he whispers.

“Fuck off with that,” I gasp immediately, unbidden.

Jesus. What did I say? Like some other power controls my mouth and it’s a nonstop litany of shit.

Blake laughs with delight, as if I’d said the most clever and witty thing. It’s mortifying. Once, I was good with words. Supposedly they’re my thing. Clearly, that’s a pack of lies now.

I eye him warily.

“Tell me more,” he says.

“I’ve got nothing.”

“You’ve already had plenty to say in the last…” Blake makes a production of checking his watch. “Two minutes.”

“You should see what I can do in five,” I blurt. Oh God, the unintended innuendo. If only I could take those words back.

“I’ve already had a preview,” he drawls, all southern silk.

Of course he’s going to torment me now. And he’s obviously thrilled at the chance.

I shiver. “I meant generally speaking. Not… Well.”

Too late. We’ve both gone there again.

For a moment, it’s nothing but us alone in his trailer, me on my knees and him decidedly elsewhere, and truthfully, in this moment, what I’d give to be back there right now—

“You wanna know something?” he asks.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been dying since then to know what you can do in two hours. For science.”

I swallow hard. Obviously, he’s messing me about. “There’s absolutely no way a film person would have anything to do with a book person. Because, you know, different media.” Even when lewd acts are involved. Especially when lewd acts are involved. I flip open my ledger and scowl at the page. “Different business.”

His chuckle, so near, undoes me. I do everything that I can to suppress any hint of that. I’ve already revealed far too much.

“Aubrey?”

“Yes, Blake?”

“Wanna go out for a drink later?”

I narrow my eyes at him. Is that a come-on? It’s got to be. Bold. Hard to say as his eyes dance with mischief.

“We could discuss our separate industries. If that would make you more comfortable. I’d do that for you. It could even be cross-cultural learning,” he says generously.

My face burns. Arsehole. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Blake looks serious. “It could be a terrible idea, you’re right. But I get it if you’re scared.”

“Scared!” I give him a stern look, straightening to my full height. What does he take me for?

Flustered, I adjust the cuff of the aviator watch from Eli. “I’m not scared. Are you?”

“Nope. Then—I dare you to come out with me tonight.”

He can’t be serious. Are we teenagers? He’s obviously trying to provoke me into a reaction. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

“A dare. How ridiculous. Is this what actors do?”

“Mm, it varies on the film genre.” He’s nonchalant. Damn actor advantage, schooling his expression like that.

“Fine.” There’s a competitive streak in me, usually deeply buried these days, that abruptly comes to the surface. I won’t be outdone, shameless goading or not. “I’ll see you your dare, then.”

“You say it like you’re gonna raise it.”

My lips twist. “Dinner, then. Drinking on an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster. I’ve been told on excellent authority that crisps will only carry one so far.”

He grins with delight. “Right, dinner it is. Mind you, it might be late, depending how it goes. Us film people have long days.”

“So I’m learning about film people.”

God, he better not be gunning for a Michelin-starred restaurant. Already, I’m torn between regret and curiosity.

The director claps his hands, whistles, and then calls everyone to gather for the rehearsal.

“Guess that’s my cue,” says Blake. He starts to leave, then turns back and flashes a smile that takes my breath away. “I’ll text you if you’re not here when we wrap for the day.”

“’Kay.” I can hardly believe what I’ve agreed to.

Then, it’s all serious film business. I settle on the stool behind the counter, out of the way. Thank God, a chance to recover a slight distance from him. But even in the same room, goose bumps linger.

The actors gather. Scripts are shared. They talk blocking, lighting, logistics. And my heartbeat is faster than a sparrow, like this moment is something fleeting that could disappear in an instant.

…

There’s only so long a man can pretend to work on the books or browse online while a film rehearsal goes on. They run through lines and camera angles and do other things. I don’t know what exactly is going on. Warm-ups, possibly. I stay for some of the filming then retreat to my office after essentially swearing a blood oath to silence. Occasionally, I hear the wash of voices down the hall when they take a break, and then I know I can boil the kettle or run upstairs to get something. And I do end up—mostly—working.

Filming goes late. They weren’t joking about the endurance hours.

Around 6:00 p.m., Blake texts me. Clutching my phone, I reread the message several times.

Still want to meet for dinner? Cool vegan place nearby if you’re up for that The Wholesome Pea

I purse my lips, perturbed.

A cursory Google search tells me that Blake isn’t pranking me. In fact, there’s a legitimate new restaurant about a ten-minute walk away called The Wholesome Pea, celebrating the humble legume and bespoke seasonal dishes, according to its website. No Michelin star, but there’s 4.5 stars on the reviews, which seems surprising for a place celebrating the triumph of okra this week. If that isn’t troubling enough, the lack of appropriate punctuation in Blake’s text before the restaurant’s name has me twitching. A colon. A dash of some manner. Anything.

Rubbing my eyes, I tell myself to chill the fuck out.

I didn’t used to care about those things so much. I used to be relaxed.

Don’t judge people by their use of punctuation, Aubrey. Give the man a chance. Eli’s always saying I need to relax. And the arsehole’s right.

Fuck off, Eli.

Like I can’t angst over the prospect of a first date without Eli interrupting my thoughts. Rude. Better go back to the series of lewd daydreams I’ve had about Blake since meeting him. The man is very effective at driving me to distraction and beyond. Like my new habit of flinging hot beverages around whenever he appears, like some visceral automatic response deep in my nervous system that can’t be stopped.

Chilling the fuck out isn’t in my nature when it comes to Blake.

Instead, during the next break of filming I hurry upstairs to look in the abomination that is my dilapidated wardrobe, crammed full of clothes wilted with heat. God, why didn’t I think about this problem hours before? Back when I might’ve had time to do something about figuring out something half decent to wear.

I flip through shirts hung on wire hangers in a haphazard way, in the empty hope that a shirt I’ve never seen before might materialize like a first date offering from a portal to Narnia. But no. There’s no instant access to Topman or anything of the like through my wardrobe. Instead, I’m confronted with the reality of a series of unironed shirts for the simple fact I don’t own an iron.

I find the least wrinkly option—a white shirt with a small gray bird print. With a frown, I hold it at arm’s length. If only I could run the shower set to blistering to try to smooth the wrinkles out. I pat the shirt down ineffectively. The heat wave’s done nothing for de-wrinkling fabric. But I don’t dare run the shower with the shrieking pipes and faulty plumbing. I don’t want the wrath of the director on me. But I haven’t had a chance to get ready, not properly.

I give my Docs a three-minute polish to get the worst of the scuffs off.

The distant part of me that occasionally embraces reason knows Blake hasn’t had a chance to get ready either. He’s been filming all day.

I find my cleanest jeans, run a hand through my hair, and change my shirt. That’s about as good as it gets. And, on schedule, I go downstairs as they wrap for the day.

Decidedly not ready, I shove trembling hands into the depths of my pockets. Reality dawns that I’m going on a date—a date!—with Blake Sinclair. Thrilling. Terrifying.

Here goes nothing.