“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.
