“What, andpayher to take it off my hands?” Earnshaw held up the book, where I could see a price written in neat cursive. £1.50.
“But she said it was too expensive. And she didn’t look poor. That purse she was carrying was a classic Chanel.”
“Here’s your first lesson about the second-hand book business. Many people come into bookshops every day. Only a select few of them want to buy books. The rest want to waste your time. You’ll learn to distinguish them two, but only if you stick around long enough and don’t do anything stupid. She was a time waster, and now she won’t come back. The bird did us a favor.”
Earnshaw reached into the top drawer and pulled out a handful of dried cranberries. He tossed them on the floor. The raven leapt down from the light fixture and hopped across the rug to collect his prize.
“He’s really cute,” I said. “I didn’t know you could have a pet raven.”
The raven jerked its head up and glared at me with fierce brown eyes edged with gold, almost as if he objected to my choice of words. Which was ridiculous. Ravens were intelligent, but they didn’t understand English.
“He’s no pet,” Earnshaw growled. “He’s another bloody nuisance flatmate, just like that twit over there.”
“I’m no twit,” Morrie yawned.“Heathis the one who uses up all the hot water shampooing his eyebrows.”
Earnshaw did have magnificent eyebrows. “Your name is Heath?”
Morrie snorted. “He hasn’t told you yet? And after you made such fun of my name, you’re going tolovethis. Our beloved, cantankerous bookshop proprietor goes by the name of Heathcliff Earnshaw.”
Chapter Four
Ilaughed. “As in, Heathcliff the infamous rogue fromWuthering Heights?”
“My mother had an abominable sense of humor,” Heathcliff mumbled.
More than that, she has bloody psychic abilities.Because how else did you explain that this devastatingly handsome, epicly-eyebrowed, brooding fuckwit ended up with the nameHeathcliff?
“This is too hilarious.” Laughter bubbled out of me. I leaned against the desk, clutching my stomach as tears of amusement prickled in my eyes. “How can you two live in a bookshop with those names? It’s way too meta.”
Heathcliff and Morrie exchanged a weird glance. “We met online,” Morrie said, “in a chatroom for children of literary-obsessed lineage.”
His words took a few moments to sink in. “Oh. You guys are a couple?” Of course; all the clues were there – two bachelors living over top of a bookshop, Morrie’s impeccable dress sense, the fact Heathcliff kept looking at me with that sneer of disgust. Obviously, they were more than just flatmates.Shit.I sounded so disappointed. I tried to cover my tone with a cough. “I mean, that’s perfectly okay, of course. I just meant that I didn’t realize, not that it matters to me one way or the other—”
“James answered an ad I put in the shop window,” Heathcliff said. “Our names are an unfortunate coincidence.”
“We’re not together,” Morrie added, his tongue flicking across his lip. “Although it’s not for lack of trying on my part. Heathcliff is such a prude.”
“So you’re—” I dared to ask.
“Pansexual, I believe you call it these days. In the world of my books, it was known as sexual deviancy.” Morrie’s eyes flicked down my body again, and I shuddered.Yes, please.
“So if you want to fuck him, you can go right ahead.” Heathcliff scowled. “Just don’t do it upstairs. I have to eat up there.”
“Hey, that’s not appropriate—”
“All this talking isn’t getting any work done.” Heathcliff shoved a box from behind the desk with such force that a cloud of dust kicked back into his face, staining his eyebrows and stubble a dignified grey. “These are books.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I shot a glance at Morrie. “No offense.”
“Oh, I never take offense.”
“You’re to go through this box and pick out the books we’re going to keep, then load them on to the computer and shelve them. There won’t be many books for keeping.” Heathcliff glared at Morrie. “You can blamehimfor this thankless task because I slipped out to the post office and he got sweet-talked by a dim-witted octogenarian into accepting this drivel.”
I flipped the lid on the box, revealing stacks of James Patterson and Nora Roberts titles. Airport books, of course.
“If you’re wondering why we don’t want books like these—”
“Because they’re airport books. We don’t buy airport books, Mills and Boon, or nineteenth century bibles. If anyone comes in with railway books, self-help, local history unless it’s self-published, and Folio Society volumes, those go on the yes pile immediately. I told you, I grew up in this bookshop. I learned a few things from Mr. ___.” I held up a copy ofThe 5 Love Languages. “Case in point – this is a keeper.”
