“She’s a good person. But I only like her as a friend.”
I nodded, feeling my cheeks burn. “So how do you like me?”
His grin and the way he looked at me through narrowed eyes was new. The effect it had on my body, starting from my stomach and working its way both up and down was also new.
“Maybe you shouldn’t answer that here.”
“It can wait for another time. I should go and see Laurie and get this meeting out of the way.” He took his hand out of his pocket and briefly touched my side, hand just above my waist. I felt a jolt, something else that was new, and bit my lips together, not entirely sure what would come out of my mouth.
For the next fifteen minutes I made myself scarce in the crime section, partially reading a book and managing to get lostin it. I’d also managed to lose Harriet, hopefully to keep an eye on what was happening and provide some reassurance after.
I was half way through the second chapter – reading while standing up, something I’d mastered at the age of twelve – when a gentle cough brought me away from a scene where a victim was being brutally slaughtered.
“Are you enjoying that?”
I recognised him after a couple of seconds. “Jay Cornell. Laurie said you were signing here.” I glanced outside and saw the queue waiting to come in. “You’re the reason for that?”
He ran his fingers through thick black hair and looked apologetic. “Some of it. There are two women there who I’ve seen at every signing I’ve done for the last eighteen months. I’m not sure if it’s the quality of my writing or if they want a starring role in my next book. How do you know Laurie?”
“Through a friend. How doyouknow Laurie?’ I hoped my expression conveyed that I knew exactly how heknewLaurie.
“She’s a friend.” His eyes twinkled. “How are you enjoying the book?”
I remembered it was his previous release. “It’s really gripping, if a little gruesome. My mum raved about this. Can I get you to sign your latest without having to queue with your fan club?”
“Anything if you don’t call it a fan club.” He pulled a sharpie out of his pocket, both of us moving further to the back of the shop as members of the Silversmith team created an area for people to queue for the signing.
Jay signed the book I’d already paid for, and posed for a selfie, which I’d be sending to my mum in a few seconds, and was then ushered off to sign and smile away, his publicist ushering him to a standing desk near the entrance. I watched the queue being organised, a sense of excitement rolling through the store as readers got to meet the person who created their fictionalhero, and I grinned as I watched Laurie interact with him, her hand brushing his, her eyes lingering at little too long on his.
“That’s the author she’s crushing on.” Carter made me jump. I hadn’t been aware he was near. “She mentioned him.”
“He’s really nice. I can see why she likes him.”
“Really?”
I laughed quietly. “You sound jealous.”
He made a huffing noise that I couldn’t interpret, followed by a cough.
“Got a frog in your throat?”
“No. Not at all. This place is about to get crazy. Look at all your competition for the crime writer.” He redirected me to the growing queue.
A barrier had been formed, creating a one way system so readers could buy a copy of Jay's book at the door, one of the special first editions, then queue to have it signed, giving them a good look inside the shop. There wasn’t enough room for them to mooch, but I noticed Laurie and a couple other of the shop team were handing out ten percent off cards.
“Shall we go in the back? I could do with a coffee.” He tugged at my sleeve.
I followed him to the door to the back of the shop, then through another door that led to some stairs.
“This is where Laurie’s living. We can escape up here for a bit.”
“Won’t she mind?”
“She told me to head up here. The friend of her grandfather’s gone, so we’re in the clear for no more play acting.” He led the way up the stairs and through a partially opened door into a living room that was an assortment of boxes.
“Is this where Laurie’s been living?” I spotted a mattress with a box next to it that seemed to be acting as a bedside table.
“Yep. She didn’t want to stay at my house.”
