‘Don’t you think there’s something fascinating about used books?’ he asked. ‘Right this second, you’re looking at a book that’s been read a dozen times by a dozen different people over more years than you’ve been alive. I can never get over it, the thought of one person sitting down to write a story and all the different people who pick it up over the years and read it. The same words taking on a completely different meaning every time.’
‘Joe Walsh, you’re a secret romantic,’ I teased. ‘I never would’ve guessed.’
A small smile played on his face and he looked over at me, Emily Brontë in hand.
‘Never said it was a secret.’
As usual, Sarah was correct. I barely knew him. Surrounded by books, I felt safer than before, like I was on home ground, like I could be brave.
‘What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done?’ I asked.
The smile faded into something more complicated and he shook his head very gently. ‘Depends who you ask.’
Turning his back, he took himself off to inspect the historical fiction shelves, leaving me behind.
The bookcases opened up to a space around the till, a beautiful bookish mural of women writers painted on the back wall and a narrow corridor off to one side leading away to the back of the building. I wandered down the corridor, running my fingertips over the walls. Maybe, when he wasn’t being impossibly frustrating, Joe was a romantic. Not the breezing-into-a-fancy-restaurant-with-a-dozen-red-roses kind but personally I’d never been interested in those kind of generic gestures anyway. Everyone’s definition of romance was different. One woman’s rose petals scattered through the house was another woman’s hiding a bag of Mini Eggs in your handbag and I for one was definitely a Mini Eggs girl. Imagine trying to feel sexy when you knew you were going to have to vacuum up those petals in the morning. Dried me up faster than salt on a slug.
Charlotte’s small back office-slash-stockroom was already full to overflowing, organised chaos comparedto the bright and airy front of the shop. Ancient wooden beams supported the low ceiling and there were dozens of cardboard boxes stacked up against whitewashed walls, a heavy-looking desk tucked away in the corner with a computer on top and my dad’s old laser printer hidden underneath. The room was dimly lit with only one small window, perfect for protecting delicate books and softening the edges of everything it touched. Aside from the addition of electricity, I could easily believe nothing had changed about this room since the place was built, hundreds of years ago. It smelled old but in a warm, reassuring way. Nothing bad could happen to you in here. Where the shop was all shelfies, selfies, loud debates and sweet cream nitro cold brew, this room was made for cups of tea and curling up with a good book that left you full of feeling, long after the tea went cold. Flicking through a pile of glittery stickers on the desk, I smiled. I was so proud of Charlotte.
‘I’ve got to hand it to her, your sister has done a good job with this place.’
Joe appeared at the end of the hallway, his shoulders barely squeezing through the door. He stooped to dodge one of the beams, marvelling at his surroundings as he came closer and dominating the enclosed space with his physicality.
‘She really has,’ I agreed, wrapping my cardigan tightly around me, my last line of defence. ‘You forget so quickly, don’t you? I should’ve known she’d ace this, she’s so sure of herself. I definitely had more faith in myself when I was eighteen.’
‘When I was eighteen, I didn’t have a clue.’ He followed up with a rich, deep chuckle that echoed off the low ceiling and reverberated through me. ‘I washuman chaos back then. Always acting on impulse, no concern for what might come next.’
‘Do you act on impulse now?’ I asked before I could bite back the words.
He looked down at the copy ofWuthering Heightsstill in his hands, opened the cover and flicked through the pages before setting it down carefully.
‘Sometimes.’
I backed into the edge of the desk, feeling my way around until I was safely behind it, and dropped my bag on the surface with a dull thud. There was a single box of books next to the computer and I feigned interest in its contents, afraid that if he caught me in his gaze again I wouldn’t be able to move. Inside was an untouched stack of freshly printed pink books. What else butButterflies? My own book was now officially stalking me.
‘A chaotic romantic with impulse control,’ I replied with a hitch in my voice as I closed up the box. ‘Sounds dangerous.’
‘Mmm. If I were you, I’d stay away from a man like that.’
‘I’m trying.’
It was so quiet. No whirr of air conditioning, no rumble of traffic, only the muffled sound of footsteps on the concrete floor and my own erratic breathing.
Joe reached his arms up over his head and grabbed hold of one of the wooden beams, testing its hold before leaning into it. His body blocked out almost all the light from the little window, casting him in shadows and making it impossible to read his expression. I ran my hand across the smooth surface of the desk. It felt solid.
‘What changed?’ I asked, running his words back to myself.
‘What do you mean?’ Joe replied without moving.
‘You said youwerehuman chaos. What changed?’
He didn’t reply right away, waiting until he knew what he wanted to say before he said it.
‘It wasn’t one thing,’ he said with a tilt of his head. ‘My mum left Boston, moved back here, up to Scotland, a couple of years earlier and she wasn’t in the best health. I wasn’t enjoying my job, and there were, I don’t know, other things.’
‘Romantic things?’ An undeniable stab of jealousy stuck in my side.
‘Lots of things,’ he said vaguely. ‘I needed a change. I needed to change.’
