Читать книгу The Bookshop On The Corner - Rebecca Raisin, Rebecca Raisin - Страница 12

Chapter Three

The Bookshop on the Corner blog took off moments after I sent the link to clients old and new and my friends in Ashford. It seemed people loved to read about daily life in a second-hand bookshop. Within a month, I had over three thousand followers, and the numbers grew daily. I’d met a community of other book bloggers who were supportive, and funny, and felt like real friends.

Orders poured in for vintage Harlequin romance books, so I’d been busy scouring my usual sources trying to find more. I was as busy as I’d ever been, and this new venture had given me a major confidence boost. Women emailed me daily with stories about their lives, and how books had been there for them when times were tough. It reminded me of the Ernest Hemingway quote, ‘There is no friend as loyal as a book.’ And this new cluster of online friends made me cherish our shared passion, always and for ever — reading. I’d found people who were just like me, and it made me feel as though I could do anything, and be myself and that I was enough. It changed me almost overnight, giving me a sense of self-assurance I’d never had before.

The cloud of feeling lost that had hung over me the weeks before had vanished as quickly as it had come. For the first time in ages I was invigorated, and felt that the world — albeit virtually — was opening up to me, as I tried to open up to it.

***

After scheduling my blog post for the morning I gave into temptation and settled behind the counter with my book, promising myself I’d only read for ten minutes. Twenty if I finished on an odd-numbered page. Thirty if I was stuck halfway through a chapter. OK, I’d stop when a customer walked in.

A silhouette loomed through the open doorway blocking out the last vestiges of the summer sun. The half-shadow seemed rugged, masculine. A second later, a man stepped over the threshold of the bookshop dipping his hat. The girl held her breath, hoping the stranger would be as handsome as his powerful saunter implied. She gulped as he stood in front of her; the orange glow of the overhead light lit up his face, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones, and piercing gaze, making her mute with desire…

“Excuse me, miss?”

The book fell from my hands as the presence of a man startled me. There he was, the rugged stranger with chiseled cheekbones, and a look in his eye that screamed take me to bed!

It took a moment for my brain to unscramble and realize I was not in fact living out the scene I had just read. Actually, it took far too long for me to understand that I was staring at him, my eyes wide, jaw hanging open, like some kind of fool. Gathering my thoughts, I coughed, clearing my throat, and donned my professional bookseller face.

“Can I help you? Let me guess, you’re looking for a book on…” I took in his appearance: tight denim jeans, casual white tee shirt, tight around the bicep region — I mean, wasn’t that uncomfortable? The sleeve of his tee looked as though it were practically cutting off the blood supply. I dragged my eyes back to his face, and my breath caught. I hadn’t seen a man so good-looking except in my imagination.

“On…” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Damn! No more romance reading during work hours.

I coughed again, this time more forcefully, to pull myself together and focus on the job of selling books. “Right, a book on, er…” It was a gift of mine to be able to garner what book a person was looking for just by their dress, and their mannerisms, but this guy had me stumped. All I could imagine was that little man crease thing, right where his jeans hung. Note to self: stop dropping gaze to his nether regions.

I was doing it again. The mute, bamboozled, mouth-open thing.

“I’d say you’re a thriller man.” There. Done.

He shook his head. “Wrong.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “What do you mean ‘wrong’? You have thriller written all over you.”

He made a huge show of looking for the word thriller on his clothing; he pulled his tee shirt out, and, oh, good God…his six-pack rippled, exactly as it did on the hero of a Harlequin cover.

This time I shook myself as though I’d just come out of the ocean. I couldn’t keep clearing my throat and coughing; he’d think I was sick, or worse contagious, or something.

“Are you OK?” he asked, tilting his head.

I moved from behind the counter, and headed towards the front door. It was steamy in here all of a sudden. I made a mental note to open some more windows in future. And maybe stock an ice pack or two.

“I’m totally fine. Just a little hot.” I needed some space. This guy had me dreaming Harlequin, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to do that and keep the giddy, dreamy look off my face.

He followed me, leaning against the opposite door jamb. “Let me guess, you’re more of a romance reader?”

I double blinked and hastily said, “I am not!” Please tell me I didn’t say out loud his abs rippled. “I mainly read true crime. And horror. The gorier, the better,” I big-fat lied. For some reason he looked like the kind of guy who’d belittle romance readers, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing.

He gave me the once-over, a very slow up and down, that made me shrink under his scrutiny. “You look more like a romance reader to me.”

I squared my shoulders. “And what exactly does a romance reader look like?”

“Let’s see.” He scratched his chin as if he was contemplating. “She’s tiny, like a doll. Has perfectly cut black bangs, which highlight her mesmerizing doe eyes. Nervous around strangers, unaware that her hands flutter like the wings of a butterfly when she’s thinking things she doesn’t want anyone to know…”

I gasped, and put my hands behind my back.

“Her voice is husky, betraying her desires…”

“OK, stop. What’s with all the flowery prose? Are you a romance writer? Are you one of those men who moonlight as Cindii Lovenest, or something, to help sell more books?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

He laughed, throwing his head back, and showed his perfect white teeth. No actually, this wasn’t a romance novel, let me adjust that — he laughed, throwing his head back, showed his perfect white teeth, which would one day in the near future, possibly ten years or so away, be not as white. There.

“I am a writer. Just not a romance writer. I’m a reporter from New York.”

“A reporter from New York, hey? Aha, let me guess, you want a self-help book? How to have it all? How to avoid living the cliché? No, wait, how to make every minute count?”

He put a hand to his chest and scoffed. “I detect sarcasm! Do you think us New Yorkers are that bad, really?”

I shrugged. “I only know what I read.”

“Which is romance.”

“Bloody, gory, zombie-loving horror with chainsaws, and ninja stars, and a little true crime, remember.”

“Liar.”

It was not like me to be so extroverted, and I didn’t usually think so…lewdly. This stranger had some weird kind of pull over me, eking out a different Sarah from the one who actually existed. Gone was the girl in a corner, nose in a book, somehow replaced with a girl expertly flirting, using fast-paced banter with someone who was definitely not my type. Too handsome was too hard.

But he smelled good. Not of the tree-bark, glorious man-sweat, musky he-scent, rather I’ve-doused-myself-with-some-male-perfume-that-smells-a-little-like-cotton-candy, and spice, making me consider taking a quick nibble of his skin. This was of course highly inappropriate and a little weird.

He ran a hand through his dark too-long hair. See, too-long? He was the epitome of a romance-novel hero. And it wasn’t a cliché, it just was a little too long, in that it curled around his ears in an enticing way that would make women want to tuck it behind for him. It was a ploy, and I bet he knew it. He looked around mid-thirties and had examined what women read about, and, I’d bet, copied the brief, right down to, well…his briefs. I had a twenty-second battle with my eyes, which were trying to drop their gaze to see if his underwear was the usual hero style.

“Anyway… Mr?”

“Ridge.”

“Mr Ridge—”

“No, it’s Ridge. Ridge Warner.”

I snorted, which I tried to cover with a fake hiccough. I hated that I couldn’t control my snorts. “Your name is Ridge? Like from The Bold and the Beautiful?”

“Maybe my mom was a fan of the show? Who knows?” Mirth danced around in his blue God-damn sexy hero eyes.

“Ridge,” I managed to sputter. I couldn’t stop laughing. I just couldn’t.

“And what’s your name?”

Internal sigh. Could it be any plainer? “Sarah. Sarah Smith.”

He pursed his lips. “Sounds like an alias to me. I mean, is this really a bookshop or a front for your spy business? Are you CIA?”

“FBI, actually.” I grinned at him, before catching myself. This little exchange was fun, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe a big city reporter would be interested in me. That would only happen in a fairy tale. “So, what can I help you with, Ridge?” I was almost certain I managed to hide the lip wobble by clamping my teeth down, and looking away. Ridge. I had to stop thinking of his name or I’d never compose myself.

“Have you got any Keats?”

“A poetry man — color me surprised.”

I was about to amble to the poetry section when he caught my arm. I tingled from his touch, but tried to mask it by whistling. Whistling? He must’ve thought I was cuckoo.