Still, I catch the flex of his jaw and the way he grips his knee for a second to anchor himself. This isn’t his scene, but I love him for being here anyway. I love that he’s here doing this for his mum, even when he clearly would rather be anywhere else. The chair creaks as he shifts to look at me. I’m grinning. I can’t help it.
He raises a brow.
“What?”
“You’ve just become the fantasy of half the room,” I whisper. “I bet they’re wondering if you lift bales of hay shirtless.”
He smirks, low and crooked.
“You’re just wondering that yourself, aren’t you?”
I scoff, but the heat rises to my cheeks anyway.
“That obvious, huh?
Ford leans back—or tries to. The chair gives a loud protest. He ignores it.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice low enough to remain just between us, “I can give you a demonstration sometime.”
An image of him doing exactly that flashes through my head: bare chest, jeans low on his hips, straw dust in the air. For a moment, I forget how breathing works. I gawk at him like a schoolgirl nursing a hopeless crush. I suddenly know just how the other women in this group feel right now. Then, his fingers brush the outside of my thigh, casual but unmistakably intentional.
“Got you a little flustered there, sunshine?” he asks, his smirk widening.
I open my mouth, some kind of flustered nonsense queuing up, but before I can respond, my eyes snag on Will, just behind Ford, staring straight at me.
I smile and wave politely.
He doesn’t smile back. Just looks at me with a cold, blank stare.
My stomach shifts, but before I can make sense of it, a hand lands gently on my arm.
“Hello, dear!”
A middle-aged woman beams down at me, all cardigans and cheerful energy.
“I’m Mrs Barker,” she says brightly, “So lovely to see new faces in the group.”
Ford leans away, giving us space as Mrs Barker begins chatting about the book club. I push the chill of Will’s stare to the back of my mind and focus on the warmth in her voice. She asks me about my favourite genre, and I don’t hesitate to tell her all about the books I love—fantasy, romantasy, romance—feeling instantly more myself.
Mrs Barker nods along like I’ve just passed an important test. “It’s lovely to see someone so passionate about books. We need more of that.”
A few others join the conversation, looking at me with warm curiosity. At first, it’s magic, and my voice brightens with excitement, heart thrumming with hope. I gush about the stories I love—the way fantasy and romance make the world feel less lonely, my whole heart and enthusiasm spilling out of me.
But then I mention the shop, and everything shifts.
Mr Hargrove, a retired librarian, smiles kindly.
“A new bookshop could be just the thing to bring in fresh energy.”
I nod, gratefully.
Then the gift shop owner speaks, her voice clipped and her smile tight.
“I just don’t see the need. We already have places that sell books. Adding another shop will just split business.”
“I agree,” says the woman from the stationery store, arms folded like a fortress. “It’s hard enough keeping our doors open. We don’t need someone swooping in with shiny shelves and coffee tables.”
My breath catches, and my smile falters from the sting.
