She blinks, going back to her form and showing me. “There’s a signed consent form to use Barnes Books as a location. It’s perfect. Absolutely charming. We’ll need to make a few changes for filming, of course, and compensate you for the inconvenience—”
“What signed consent form?”
“This consent form? The one you signed?” She shows me a piece of paper that looks worse for wear and taps on a signature.
“I’ve signed nothing. I’m the owner.”
“Aubrey Barnes?”
“That’s me. I didn’t agree to this.”
“It looks like you have. This was delivered to me this morning.”
We both consider the form in awkward silence. It’s the crumpled paper from my study. It’s been smoothed out, but the creases are still there. And that scrawl could only be Gemma’s signature. The first and only legible letter is aG.
A headache creeps around my skull, pressing like a vise. I rub my eyes wearily. The signature’s still there when I look again. “It’s a mistake. That’s not my signature.” I fish my wallet out of my pocket, pulling out my ID. I drop it onto the clipboard and point to the signature. “Look. Does that look the same? I’m the owner. No one else signs for me.”
She makes an unhappy sound. “I’m willing to have you sign a fresh contract—”
“I didn’t agree to this in the first place!”
“Mr. Barnes, we’re offering a generous fee. We’ve all fallen in love with the charm of this bookshop. The corporate shops don’t have the same feel. It’s so perfectly old-fashioned in here.”
She likes my shop? Against my better judgment, curiosity is winning. I struggle. “What…are you filming?”
Alice Rutherford’s face lights up, like she had been waiting hopefully for this moment for a long time, and I’ve finally done her the courtesy of asking. “A rom-com.”
“Oh God. Couldn’t it be a thriller or space film or something?”
“It’s very clearly and unmistakably a romantic comedy. Please, consider our offer. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to read over the contract. If you don’t mind, could we take some photographs and measurements today?”
“I don’t like romantic comedies,” I blurt, my face warm. Talk about triggering. The flowers must be some sort of setup, then. To secure the location. That must be it. It makes more sense than Blake Sinclair actually liking me—or my blowjob—enough to send flowers.
Mortified, I wilt.
“We’ll compensate you. How does five thousand a day sound? It’s more than fair.” She hands me an unsigned contract. “It’ll be brilliant publicity for you,” she assures me. “Please think about it. Give me your answer tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” I say grudgingly. Thatisa lot of money.
If only I could disappear upstairs and delete Monday morning. And Saturday, for the record. Obviously no good comes from chance encounters with film stars, no matter how C-list.
My phone chimes then.
“Excuse me.” I turn and head into the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to get away from everything.
I turn on the kettle for tea, gripping the edge of the counter for a moment while I force myself to take a deep breath. Then, I take a look at my phone.
It’s Lily.
Back home again in the Big Smoke after my Grand Tour. Drinks tonight? Lxx
I text back immediately.
Are you free now? Crisis. Axx
In short order, we assemble at our usual, a pub that could legitimately be described as charming, about a ten-minute walk from the shop. Mercifully, it’s in the opposite direction of the filming nonsense. Despite the melt of the afternoon, the pub is pleasingly dark and cave-like. Unlike the Victorian building and its traditional decor, the pub itself has very modern air-con that packs a wallop. It’s one of those places that fancies itself as a gastropub, meaning a decent food menu and a tendency toward craft beer—and, unfortunately, the occasional unironic hipster. The location’s ideal for us, and the pints are well priced, so here we are.
I sag with relief to be away from all of it. No film trailers, no flowers, no books. No Blake Sinclair and no Gemma.
