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.
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 notthatfamous.” 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.”
