‘Fine.’ Lexi doesn’t want Sam anywhere near her staff and places he could snoop around, so she can’t reciprocate. She thinks about her making-Sam-fall-in-love-with-her list, how this is a golden opportunity to strike something else off it. ‘But if I win, you have to come to a dance class with me.’
‘A dance class?’
‘There’s going to be salsa dancing at Erin’s wedding. I want to be prepared.’ This is blatant fabrication, but will do nicely as an excuse. ‘I need a partner to practise with.’
‘Fine. I’m not going to lose anyway, so I have nothing to worry about.’ But he can bluff all he likes: Lexi saw the nervous look cross his face.
‘Exactly,’ Lexi says, and when she puts down her cup and walks out, her mind is already whirring with Austen themes for IBD.
Chapter Eighteen
The last Saturday day in April dawns bright and cheerful, and the adrenaline is already pumping in Lexi’s veins when she wakes up. It’s her favourite day: better than birthdays, better than Christmas. Independent Bookstore Day. The competition with Sam is just one aspect of what will make the day fun. Not to mention beating him.
Arriving at the bookshop half an hour before opening, she notes approvingly that there’s already a queue of eager customers, both regulars and DC bookshop hoppers who know that if they make it to four or more independents today, they’ll be entered into a draw to win a pile of novels in the genre of their choice. Balloons float above the chalkboard outside. Indoors, Megan and Natalie busy themselves with laying out cupcakes and plastic champagne flutes for buck’s fizz. Debbie puts final touches to the Austen-themed displays. Marcus re-acquaints himself with the till system; usually, he’s a behind-the-scenes guy, keeping books flowing onto shelves, but today everybody is out on the shop floor. Hazel, her tidy silver bob newly trimmed, wipes down the counter area, making sure everything is pristine. It won’t take long before everything descends into happy chaos, but it’s good to start a day like this in some semblance of order, at least.
‘It sort of surprises me that we haven’t leaned in harder to the Austen theme before,’ Lexi hears Natalie say on her way past to the kitchen for a fortifying cup of tea.
‘An old hang-up from my schooldays,’ Lexi tells her ‘I was desperate to blend in. And with the red hair and the American passport... the Austen thing was one thing too many that set me apart. I guess I’ve always felt a bit squiffy about it because of that.’ A vague nod to her famous potential-relative in the name of her bookshop is one thing; leaning in totally is another. But today, because of the competition with Sam, she’ll do what it takes.
Soon, it’s 10a.m., and shoppers are streaming in. Lexi assumes her position at the info desk in the nerve centre of her bookshop, and absorbs the vibes. Here, she’ll hand out rewards for the best chalk drawing on the pavement outside the shop. She’ll dole out raffle prizes in the form of bookmarks and stickers and tote bags and gift vouchers. And, in the meantime, she watches as customers mill around, checking out the new displays made in preparation for today: a shelf of books that feature bookshops, a table of notebooks with anti-capitalist slogans, a stack of Jane Austen paperbacks– each one with a raffle ticket included as added incentive to purchase a classic you’ve been meaning to get to almost as long as you’ve been alive.
Lexi manages to stave off the need for a lunchbreak by snacking on the cupcakes that arrive from Baked and Wired at regular intervals. But by 2p.m., she is gasping for some caffeine, and dying to know how it’s going round the corner with Sam’s shop.
‘I’m doing a coffee run,’ she tells Megan and Elijah behind the till on her way out, to cover her tracks. A coffee run on a Saturday can take ages. Nobody will need to know that she’ll be popping into Great Expectations as part of that while she’s out. ‘Place your orders now.’
Outside Sam’s shop, a boy dressed in some approximation of Victorian clothes sings ‘You’ve Got to Pick a Pocket or Two’, and another boy dressed similarly runs behind people, exaggeratedly peering into handbags. A third paces up and down with a sandwich board, letting people know about Charles Dickens First Editions in the shop. Lexi has to hand it to Sam: this is genius, even if the cockney accents leave a lot to be desired. She won’t go inside and give him the satisfaction of telling him so, though.
She doesn’t have to. As if a mere thought has conjured him, Sam materialises next to her. ‘Come to spy, I see?’
‘Merely curious,’ Lexi replies.
‘I see. How’s it going at Pemberley?’
‘Really well,’ she says. She doesn’t have the figures yet, but she knows buzz when she sees it. ‘No need for gimmicks.’
‘I see.’ Sam is smiling, though. He knows even without Lexi owning up that she is impressed. And while period dress and re-enactment isn’t really Lexi’s thing, she’s still gutted that she didn’t think of it herself.
Still, by the end of the day, the Pemberley tills are empty of change and full to the brim of credit card receipts. It’s been the best and busiest day the shop has seen in quite some time, better even than last Christmas Eve. Maybe, just maybe, the buck’s fizz which later on was replaced by straight bubbles had something to do with that. Tipsy browsing being, after all, the best browsing.
Chapter Nineteen
‘I promised I’d come dancing,’ Sam says. ‘I never said I’d do it without complaining.’
‘Noted,’ Lexi says. She’s still smugly enjoying her victory in the Austen/Dickens competition as they travel up on the Red Line to Friendship Heights. She’s also, if she’s honest, very much enjoying the idea of being legitimately allowed to hold hands with Sam, touch him, be up close to him. She can see how in the age of her maybe-ancestor, with all its etiquette and firm boundaries, the prospect would be thrilling. It’s been too busy lately for a second piano lesson; they need to get back to them.
In the dance hall, they hang close to the wall while they wait for proceedings to start. Lexi would normally find someone to chat with at this point, establish within seconds that she owns Pemberley Books, maybe recommend a book or two. But Sam’s usual easy-going openness isn’t on display today. He seems to want to be invisible. Lexi humours him; she’s not a monster.
The dance instructor, a petite woman with her brown hair thrown up in a messy bun, claps her hands. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘It’s time to partner up, everyone.’
Lexi bites her lip to hide a smile. The reason she is here, in this dance class, is precisely for this reason: that it’s time to partner up. And for once she is not the one left over, having to dance with seventy-five-year-old Marjorie.
Within fifteen seconds, Sam has stood on her foot. ‘Sorry,’ he says, sounding genuinely stricken.
‘It’s okay.’ She smiles, attempting to put him at ease. It hurt, a little, but that’s not the point. The point is, he’s here, despite his misgivings. Holding her hands, brushing her bare arms, being up close and personal. She doesn’t even mind that he hasn’t dressed up. She just hopes he’s appreciating her slightly-lower-cut-than-necessary dress.
As the class progresses, Lexi loses track of the number of times he stands on her foot, or, for that matter, that she stands on his because he hasn’t moved in time. So much for the sexiness of dancing, of touching, of his hands on her waist. She isn’t even sure she’s that attracted to him right now– not because he’s bad at this; that, in itself, is endearing– but because he’s increasingly grumpy about it. Embarrassed, probably, which is entirely understandable– but the grumpiness is no fun for either of them. In those Jane Austen adaptations, they always make it look so easy. Maybe she would have been better off dancing with Marjorie after all.
‘It’s okay not to be good at something, you know,’ Lexi says as they make their way to the metro, warmth in her voice despite her growing impatience at his sullenness. She bumps his shoulder with hers. ‘Especially the first time you try.’
