What’s more pressing, aside from an immediate stiffening in my jeans, is that it’s impossible to draw in a breath. When I manage, hot air fills my lungs. His gaze is very intent on mine, his eyes the color of storms and seas.
So much for oxygen. It’s a casualty too, like his coffee.
“I’m fine,” he says at last.
Finally, we rise, breaking the moment, me holding a dripping package and him looking mercifully unburnt and unharmed. Though, there goes an opportunity for some restorative mouth-to-mouth.
Where did that thought come from?
“C-can I get you another coffee?” I ask. “I should’ve paid more attention to where I was going. Off in my own world as usual.”
“It’s okay. Plus you gave me a tip earlier, remember?” He checks a very swish watch that probably rivals my shop’s stock valuation. “Fuck, I’m late. They’ll notice I left when I shouldn’t have—I’ll just grab something from catering. I probably should have done that in the first place, but then I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to crash into you, would I?”
The grin he gives before he sprints off leaves me reeling, left standing alone on the pavement, blood pounding a heartbeat in my ears and somewhere considerably lower.
When I return to the cool sanctuary of the shop, flustered and holding a sodden package, there’s no way of avoiding Gemma. I remove my sunglasses. She’s still sitting on the wood counter with the fan, engrossed as she reads…the book I’m currently reading.Maurice. Apparently, I’ve left the book somewhere where she would come across it.
She lowers the paperback to peer at me. Her eyebrows lift as she gazes at the bedraggled package in my hands. “It didn’t go well, then?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Cool. Say, Aubs, I never figured you as the romantic type.” She holds up the book. “Niche Victorian smut. Nice.”
“Give me that.” I try to pluck the book from her fingers as she laughs, holding it away from me. “It’s not smut. Or Victorian. It’s a gay fiction literary classic, and, for the record, Edwardian. Though potentially scandalous when it was written. There’s nothing wrong with erotic works.”
She inspects the page with the publication details, looking dead disappointed. “It was published in the 1970s. Doesn’t sound Edwardian to me. The cover doesn’t look that old-fashioned.”
“You know that thing about not judging books by their covers? The author wrote the novel in secret. It was published long after it was written.” I set the parcel down on the counter, unwrapping the book, praying that the cardboard sleeve has kept it from being ruined. “E.M. Forster.”
“Really?” Intrigued, she flips through the pages.
“There might be a note about the author or an introduction to the history of the work.”
“I skipped the introduction on purpose.” She frowns. “It’s got spoilers in it. At least they have the decency to warn people in the first paragraph.”
“There’s also a film…” I put the wet paper wrap into the bin. The cardboard sleeve is wet, too.
“A film!” She perks up. “Ooh, tell me.”
“You ought to read the book.” I work on freeing the book from the sleeve, soggy cardboard melting under my fingers.
“Aubrey, please tell me. I don’t want to search it and use data on my phone. Why won’t you set up wifi in the shop, anyway?”
“Because you’ll spend your life Twittering or scrolling or whatever it is that you do.” I crack open the unsoaked portion of the cardboard sleeve, fishing the book out. The invoice is a bit damp.
“Whatever. You’re very unhip for a hipster.” She snorts, then prods me. “The film?”
“It’s cleverly also calledMaurice.” I flip through the book. It looks like it was spared a coffee indignity. Thankfully, it’s not a stock loss. “And I’mnota hipster. Take that back.”
“Ha. Never.”
Time to save face.
“The film was made in the eighties. Not a John Hughes film, by the way. In case you’re getting your hopes up.”
“Look at you, Mr. Barnes. All film nerd, too cool for school.”
“Hardly.”
