Before I can escape the front desk, another customer approaches. A young man. He’s gorgeous—but never mind that. More important, he has a book in hand. I’m hopeful. A paying customer, thank God.
He’s dark-haired, about my age. Stunning, actually. There’s something very appealing about him, and he’s attractive in a styled sort of way. Even his hair cooperates, medium length in controlled waves. Clearly, he’s a man who knows about grooming. Meanwhile, I’m in a rumpled blue shirt and jeans as usual. To my credit, I did drag a comb through my mop of hair this morning, even if I gave shaving a miss.
“How can I help?” I ask.
“I bought this book last week.” American accent. Southern, maybe. A leather messenger bag is slung over his shoulder. The way he’s holding the book, I can’t see the title. The cover’s hidden against his trim chest, his hand cradling the spine, receipt poking out.
“All right.” A sinking feeling hits my stomach. Not a paying customer, then.
“I want a refund.”
“A refund?” I frown.
He nods, gazing at me in an entirely disconcerting way. It’s not helping my mood, even if he is attractive.
“The author’s an asshole,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I don’t want to support him.”
“A lot of authors are arseholes.” It tumbles out before I can stop myself. “Actually, it’s not just writers. Loads of people are arseholes. In most economies, the arseholes are doing quite well for themselves.”
Oh God.
He lifts an eyebrow. “I want a cash refund. That asshole doesn’t need more of my money, especially if the assholes are doing all right, as you say.”
I sigh. “How about store credit instead? I don’t do cash refunds.”
Eli’s going to give me a dressing down later if he can hear this. At least the shop’s full enough, the bell signaling the comings and goings of customers. At last glimpse, he carried several green books from the classics section.
“Shop credit’s not gonna do me any good back home when I go back in a couple of weeks. I think your policy is…” He smirks and his eyes dance. “Bollocks. That’s what you Brits say, right?”
I start to count to ten. Therapy’s taught me the value of taking a minute. “What’s wrong with the author?” I ask reluctantly, already regretting the question.
He waves a hand. Elegant fingers, I can’t help but notice. Long and lean, something that would be brilliant for a musician.
“I told you. Asshole. He did something on Twitter…” He shrugs.
Wearily, I rub my face with my hand. I do not like this man, even if he’s gorgeous. That’s merely a distraction, and I won’t be swayed. “Let me see the book. And social media’s best avoided, for the record.”
“You should know I’m a hit on Instagram,” he says cheerfully.
Of course he is.
He hands over the book. A poetry book. Second-hand.
“The author didn’t get any royalties from this sale. At least you can take heart in that.” It’ll be me that takes the hit, but I don’t want to share this information with a stranger.
I look at the receipt. Eight quid. Gritting my teeth, I open the till and retrieve a tenner and slide it to him across the counter. Our fingers touch. I snatch mine away as though seared by the sun.
“I recommend that you stay away from poetry,” I say. “The ratio of poets to arseholes is high. Alarmingly high. Rabble-rousers, the lot of them. In fact, it’s probably best to skip anything related to that entire form of literature, just to be safe. That includes prose poems and poetic prose.”
I stare him down. Not only am I a bookseller, but I want to ensure the protection of would-be readers from the ravages of poets. Best keep him away from Bukowski and Baudelaire.
“This is more than I paid…” he says, startled as he looks at the cash in his hand. “Are you sure?”
I nod once. “What’s that saying Americans have? The customer is always right?”
He chews his lip before flashing a grin to rival Eli’s. It doesn’t help my dark mood.
He takes a shop card, glances at it. “Is this like the British Barnes and Noble?”
