An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone
Chapter Eight
At 7:30 p.m., the evening’s still warm. The sky is soft, light sliding toward twilight. I meet Blake outside of the shop. He leans against the building by the front door, dressed in dark jeans and a fresh shirt. Blake’s bright-eyed, and there’s nothing about him to suggest the man’s worked the last twelve hours straight. His hair is perfect and he gives that devastating grin, which proves to be my undoing.
I do my best to give him a confident smile. Laughable, if he knew how nervous I am. Hurriedly, I busy myself by locking the door to the shop.
Act cool. Pretend you’re cool. Also: has anyone ever thought me cool?
“An idea occurred to me.” I slide the key in my pocket, followed by some fidgeting with my watch as I glance up at him. So close. He’s slightly taller than me. Scented of cedar, like something woodsy and wholesome, but I know better about how gloriously not-wholesome he can be from firsthand experience.
“Tell me.” He hooks his thumbs into his jeans pockets. Still leaning, like he owns Soho.
“Is it fine for”—I wave a hand vaguely—“for a famous person to go out to dinner, just like that? Without being bothered?”
“I’m not that famous.” Blake chuckles, watching me in an entirely unnerving way. His gaze isn’t exactly intense, but he’s taking me in far more closely than I’m comfortable for anyone to do. “They’re interested in the leads. Not me.”
“You’re in a film,” I point out.
“But I’m not a lead actor, not by any stretch of the imagination.”
“What’s your role, then?” Curiosity gets the better of me as my glaze flickers over him.
“Understudy to the bookcase.”
“Very funny.”
Blake laughs and straightens, all long limbs and perfect teeth. “I’m in a supporting role. The best friend to the lead. Which is a very noble and important role, by the way. You’ll see me for at least two seconds.”
“And in those two seconds everyone goes to the bookshop?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. “It doesn’t seem like the place for a rom-com. Just think of the dust.”
“People happen to like reading, you know,” he chides lightly. “And don’t you vacuum in your shop? I know for a fact you do.” Blake beams at me. “Besides, we’re in London. In the film, as well as now, obviously. For work. And we take a break in a bookshop from work and the romantic leads meet by chance. Sparks fly. She’s into business, he’s into romance. They bump into each other.”
I frown at him. This is where he’s getting his inspiration for literally bumping into me around Soho. “So this date is method acting, then. You’re having me on.”
He laughs, holding his hands up. Wide-eyed, he’s terribly appealing, the shameless arsehole. “Oh no. Just serendipity. Honest.”
“Hmm. Serendipity.” Unconvinced, I gaze at him. Maybe that explains the flowers, his eagerness for our impulsive encounter in his trailer. How can I explain this otherwise? Return a poetry book, pick up a bookseller? Odd tactic otherwise. Perhaps this is what they do in America.
His expression softens. “I like you, Aubrey. You’re intriguing.”
Gulping, I give him an uncertain smile. “You must say that to all of the boys. In all of the London bookshops.”
“Oh no. Believe me, I don’t. I keep my personal life low profile. And you’re the only bookshop date I want.” He reaches out to touch my arm, which instantly brings goose bumps, traitorous body. “Ready for dinner? It’s supposed to be a small place.”
“’Kay.”
“’Kay,” he agrees, and we walk.
It’s not long before we reach the restaurant. Blake’s made us a reservation at a table toward the back, tucked away in a quiet corner. I haven’t been here before, but Ryan’s mentioned it in the past. The waiter brings us broad menus printed on unbleached recycled paper. The room’s high-ceilinged and bright. The tabletops are decorated with assorted mason jars holding flowers. Paintings and illustrations from local artists hang on the wall. I recognize the work of a couple of them from cards in my shop.
The walk was long enough to let anxiety run riot with my stomach. I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat anything, legume or otherwise, under such conditions. Gingerly, I sip my glass of cold water once we’re seated at a reclaimed wood table, a thick varnish over dark planks, including part of a hand-lettered crate.
We gaze at each other across the table. I swallow hard.
What have I done, agreeing to come out with Blake, a man I know next to nothing about? My track record for actual dating is disastrous, and Eli’s shadow looms over everything. At least Lily’s dating disasters don’t have the shadow of her longtime ex lurking in the background.
Don’t be daft. Plenty of people date after their relationships end.
“You all right?” he asks curiously.
I gulp and nod and immediately stare at the menu, trying to pick something. Anything.
Just don’t think too much. You always think too much when you’re nervous.
Blake’s looking at me. I flush.
“Braised kale?” I ask gamely over the menu. “Does that have cheese?”
“Unlikely in a vegan restaurant,” he says easily, smiling.
“Oh.”
My face is on fire. It’s warm in here. Too warm. Like I might faint. I gulp down water.
“Sorry,” I say. “I suppose I’m not up on veganism.”
He chuckles. “Plenty of people aren’t. There’s vegan cheese, but it’s not quite the same. No dairy products. Or any sort of animal-based food.”
“Not even eggs?”
“Not even. Vegetarians eat eggs and cheese, though.”
Chewing my lip, I give him a wry look. “Not off to a good start, am I?”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine.”
God, I have kale-related anxiety and Blake-related anxiety and all of the anxieties that are there to be had in a vegan restaurant at the best of times. Forget about the first date part. Faux cheese faux pas are only the beginning. Never mind the nut pilaf, a quandary of squashes, and then the greens. We haven’t even gotten into the okra or the noble chickpea, the namesake of this place. What was it again? The Whimsical Chickpea? The Whodunnit Chickpea?
“I think I’m doomed, actually.”
“Not at all. I can help.” Blake looks eagerly at me. “What do you like? Pasta? Burgers? Pizza? Looks like they do it all.”
I gulp. “I do…”
“But?”
“I didn’t even say but.”
He laughs. “It’s written on your face. Go on, tell me. You secretly eat mushy peas and pies every night. Or what is it, fish and chips?”
“No. Wrong and wrong. On a good night, a sarnie.”
“What’s that?”
“A sandwich.”
“And on a bad night?” Blake leans in slightly. “If you’re naughty.”
Transfixed, I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. “A cheeky kebab. Or two. Eaten in the street. After a night out.”
“When was the last time you did that?”
“Haven’t the faintest clue. I don’t keep track of these things.”
“Interesting.”
“Busy running a shop and all that.”
Somehow, I break away from the intensity of his gaze to study the menu as the waiter approaches for our order.
Blake goes full-core vegan with said braised kale and collard greens nestled on a bed of wild rice and chickpeas. Not to be outdone, I go for the tempeh curry which calls itself a summer celebration of vegetables. My body’s about to come into a shock.
“How about you?” I dare ask. “Your last mad night out?”
He grins. “Saturday night, maybe?”
I shake my head. “See, different worlds, yours and mine.”
“Well, you know. I flew in from America and met up with friends here already in London. So I just didn’t go to bed to calibrate with London time. Figured it was the sensible thing to do. We went straight to a party.”
“Is that normal for you?”
“No, not exactly,” Blake admits. “But I’m not one to turn down an invite. You never know what might happen. So we had a night out. And just kept going the next day. I did need a couple cups of coffee to keep going but it was fine.”
My bravery ends at asking who the “we” might be, but I don’t think I want the answer to that. In case it’s not the answer I’m looking for.
“Have you been to London before?”
“Nope. First time.”
“And how do you like it?”
“It’s cool. A British New York.”
“Hmm. Does that mean New York’s American London?” I could get used to the way he looks at me, like I’m someone special. I’m hardly mysterious, I don’t think.
Blake laughs. “Sort of. I don’t know. Obviously, London’s older. But New York’s twice as big. Trade-off.”
I’ve never been to New York before to trade notes, aside from what I’ve seen in films and read in books.
“How long are you here?” I ask. “You can make more research happen.”
“About two weeks? Depends on how it goes with the filming. If we stay on schedule. With a couple of days off at the end to chill out.”
“Difficult in a heatwave.”
“Very.”
“You can’t even have ice cream.”
“But I can have vegan ice cream.”
We contemplate each other as the food arrives. And it’s surprisingly good, despite some of my deeply held suspicions about vegetables beyond potatoes in deep-fried form, the bloodletting of beets, and the slime of okra. The curry’s excellent. I’ll never confess to anyone else about the lentils. As for cooling down, it’s tough to imagine how that might happen, as the temperature steadily increases between us.
“It’s good?” Blake searches my eyes, seeking approval. Eager to please. Unexpected.
“It is,” I admit. It’s hard to focus on eating when he looks at me like that. “It actually is.”
For a moment, we’re both engrossed in food. Hungrier than I thought, my meal’s disappearing in a hurry and I make myself slow down. Wolfing food down like a man who hasn’t eaten in a week probably sends the wrong message, like I’m getting ready to bolt. I mean, I might, but not yet. I still can’t reconcile the fact that I’m here with Blake in a corner over candlelight. Him, me, and a promenade of legumes between us.
“How was the filming today?” I ask curiously. “I made myself scarce so as not to interfere. Or make some interruption.”
“Good. Rehearsals went as planned, no hiccups. I mean, we’ve rehearsed before but it’s always a bit different when you’re on set and filming.”
“Do you…normally do romantic comedies?”
“I’ll do anything that I can. Rom-coms are fun, though. I had a small part in a superhero film in the winter, another in a historical drama after that. And a rom-com before this one too.”
“Sounds busy.”
“Yes and no. Some parts are bigger than others.”
“What’s the best part about rom-coms, as you say?” I study him, setting down my cutlery in favor of water.
Blake purses his lips slightly. He sips water too. “The kissing.”
I gawp.
He laughs at my expression. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
“Now you’re making fun.”
“You give such good reactions, though. But to answer your question… I don’t know, they’re playful.”
“Playful?” I say this like it’s a foreign word that sits awkwardly on my tongue.
His lips quirk, some secret delight. “Mmmhmm. You wanna play with me?”
“Oh—”
Oxygen vacates my lungs in a rush. I’m in a permanent blush by this point and I look anywhere than at him.
“Filthy boy,” he teases. “That wasn’t even what I meant.”
“It…wasn’t?”
“I mean…what do you do for fun, Aubrey?” He savors my name, soft on his tongue. Like something worth lingering over.
It’s entirely unnerving. I avoid his gaze again in favor of chasing a wayward lentil around my plate with my fork, one of the last survivors. Giving up, I set the fork down and twist the unbleached, hemp, bamboo something-or-other—or is it linen?—chic vegan napkin in my hands.
“Fun?” I ask weakly. God, he would have to bring up fun, wouldn’t he?
“How do you relax?”
“Oh. I don’t.”
Blake’s eyebrows shoot up as he frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…I don’t have time. Not with a business,” I say a bit too fast. I stare at the napkin. Maybe it’s linen. I glance up at last and continue to fidget with my napkin. “Not with trying to keep the shop afloat. I work all of the time. There’s always more work to do than there is time, running a shop.”
“No fun ever?”
“Nah. I’ll leave that to the other punters who deal in fun. Fun-free, me.”
How to say the last time I dared to have fun was with Eli? That fun didn’t work out for me. Now, I’ve got loads of responsibilities with a struggling shop. Somehow, I’ve turned into uptight Aubs, a target for Gemma’s humor, and an occasional source of worry for Eli.
Blake’s expression tightens with shock. Clearly, he’s a man who has time for fun, a man with time for shenanigans and whimsy.
“Fun, I think, is something for other people. Like maybe those who have the luxury of time. I guess I’m…I’m just a serious person?” I tilt my head.
A slow smile spreads across his lips.
Blake rests his arms on the edge of the table. “Uh-uh. Fuck that. I saw some hint of fun there the other day. And today.”
“You’re seeing things.” I lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest. Despite my better instinct toward reason, I’m smiling. “Like, you’re hallucinating fun. Or, maybe, projecting?”
He laughs at that. “Yeah? A fun projector? I think you’re projecting your fun aspirations on me.”
“You’re saying you’re miscast? A man who’s into rom-coms clearly has a Venn diagram overlap with fun. Fact.”
“I wouldn’t say miscast. But you don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re anti-romance, anti-fun, anti-comedy?” I counter without missing a beat.
Holding up his hands, Blake laughs. “Shit, Aubrey. I’d hate to get on your bad side. Ouch.”
“Sorry.” I relent into a twist of a smile. Despite myself, despite my misgivings about fun and things that run in its orbit, here I am. Possibly enjoying myself. I thought that part of me atrophied some time ago. Life lately doesn’t usually have much of anything approaching fun, its ilk, or a reasonable facsimile. But tonight with Blake, I’m letting my guard down a little, letting myself be swept up in his easy enthusiasm. It’s so easy.
“Hey.” Blake leans in, lowering his voice. “I have an idea.”
My eyebrows lift ever so slightly, a smile lingering. “An idea? Ideas are the worst. God knows what they might lead to.”
“You up for showing me a Londoner’s idea of fun? Show a newbie the ropes?”
I crack up hard at that. “That’s as bad as your dare!”
“What, you want to call it a night at nine o’clock?” Aghast, Blake shakes his head while I check my watch.
“It would be sensible,” I tell him. Sensible’s already left the building to have me out on a date with this gorgeous man, like I’m in some upside-down universe, because things like this—hot men like Blake—don’t appear out of nowhere keen to spend time with me. “You have no idea. Transport gets decidedly more shit from this point out. Less service. Then, if you miss the last tube or train, you’re caught on the horror of the night bus. Or worse, waiting for the night bus. Or even worse, dawn.” I shudder.
His face lights up. “I’m already in.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Dead serious. And…”
“And?”
“Don’t make me dare you again. Because I totally will. Whatever it takes.”
“Oh God. You really mean it.”
“I think you’re sitting on excellent insider info that’s just dying to come out. A wild side.”
I snort. Who does he think I am? “I have no wild side—”
“Evidence to the contrary.”
“But—”
“—you realize it’s ridiculous to call it a night at nine,” Blake finishes, laughing as he sprawls back into his chair. “Or you’re about to have a friend call with a pseudo-emergency.”
“You think I have friends? Bold assumption.”
Blake can’t stop laughing. “I suspect so. Unless you’re a total recluse.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
And that’s when my phone comes to life in my pocket. Lily with the inevitable out, always ready for an art emergency that she might need rescuing from. Truly a brilliant friend, if ever there was one.
“You gonna get that?” drawls Blake.
“Nah. Not yet. I need to show an American the city, I think.”
…
Half an hour later, on board the tube, I check the flood of texts from Lily. She’s unleashed a litany since 9:00 p.m.
HAVE YOU BEEN MURDERED TELL ME YOU HAVEN’T BEEN MURDERED AUBREY. RESPOND POST HASTE. I AM ASWOON WITH WORRY. Lxxxxxx
Laughing, I text back. That escalated quickly. You’ve also shed punctuation. xx
You’re so predictable Aubs. Lxxxxx
Going to Lucky Bar with a man. Maybe JJs after. xx
OOOOOOOOoooOOOOOooo
I slip my phone away.
Blake peers at me, hanging on to the handrail as we ricochet noisily through underground London. He gives me a curious smile. It’s fucking hotter than the sun down here, closer to the molten core of the Earth. The heatwave persists at subterranean levels. Like Lucifer’s cranked the heat to welcome my folly.
“Canceled the scheduled emergency,” I say smoothly. “Ready?”
“Born ready,” Blake sings, turning a few heads. He has a brilliant singing voice. A man near us sleeps on the seats. An elderly woman is unmoved.
As we exit, I leave my inhibitions behind me on the carriage. Till later, till my return to ordinarily scheduled sensibilities, like a regular stocktake. Right now, London’s calling, like I’m leaping off some cliff into an abyss.