The snow fell, dusting their hair and their jackets while the alcohol numbed them to the chill.
Noah leaned against the lamppost outside Quinn’s shop, an eyebrow raised, his smooth gaze on Quinn.
‘Hay in the winter,’ Quinn said, his breath materialising before him. He needn’t say anything else. He was too mesmerised by the way Noah leaned against the lamppost so effortlessly. He was jealous. Jealous of a bloody lamppost.
‘My mother used to say something to me when I was growing up.’ Noah’s eyes were fixed on the sky. Quinn hadn’t been brave enough to acknowledge Noah’s mother – the famous woman, the scandal. It didn’t feel right. He only let himself go in that shop, which seemed so small when it had been the two of them. He’d been too afraid to let loose, reminding himself that Noah Sage was talking to him.Him.
Noah strolled the short distance from lamppost to shop door as Quinn’s hand rested on the doorknob.
‘She would say to me, “Anything is possible. You are who you say you are. You already are what you’re meant to be. The possibilities are endless, and they’re bigger than you and me.” She used to take her hand, like this…’ Noah’s fingertips touched Quinn’s chin. They felt so soft and warm, and they delicately raised Quinn’s head to face the dark sky. ‘She would say to me, “Look up, handsome”, and I would say to her, “Why am I looking up?” She would tell me, “The version of yourself you want already exists. Make your wish, tell them what you want, and what will be will be.”’
Quinn didn’t know if it was the drink, or the desperation to believe, or because Noah’s fingers rested against his chin, but he looked up and whispered, ‘My shop will forever be mine.’
ChapterThirteen
Last night was a dream. It must have been. A teenage dream, a fantasy, but one hundred per cent a dream.
Except as Quinn arrived at his bookshop, carrying today’s paper, realising that he had in fact not cleaned away their glasses and the champagne bottle like he thought, memories of his night with Noah came flooding back to him.
Oh, how wonderful it had been. Noah’s blond hair, his cheeky smile, his personality. Spending one-on-one time with an author he admired was surreal, which accounted for how much he drank and how heavy his head felt today.
Quinn stared at the empty champagne bottle and the two glasses, seeing the faint imprint of Noah’s lips on the rim.
Quinn felt like that time he got high: light-headed and paranoid as hell.
What words did he utter?
Did he say anything bad?
Did he tell Noah he liked his eyes?
That he liked his books?
That he would have liked to have been one of the characters in his romance novels that got screwed by the lead?
No. No, he couldn’t have.
Then he saw the broken children’s chair and laughed.
Quinn cleared away the mess from the night before, trying to reassure himself that everything was okay. Wandering into the aisles of books, all arranged alphabetically by the author’s last name, he came to the shelf of Noah Sage books. Looking at the titles, with a few copies of each, he traced his finger over the spines, like he could almost touch the man himself.
He read many genres of books. He grew up reading everything from Dahl to Dickens. He knew his books, and of course, his dad told him about titles. Quinn had hosted many author signings and met many famous authors, but Noah was different.
One, they were the same age.
Two, Quinn loved a soppy romance.
And three, Quinn fancied the fuck out of him.
He recalled the first time he’d seen Noah Sage – it was kind of like he was a stalker, only not crazy.
Well…
No, not crazy.
He had been reading a trade magazine, looking at upcoming authors, trying to find out the buzz, and it had featured Noah for his debut. A romcom, Britain’s next Jackie Collins, only less fabulous. They praised him for realism within the genre of romance, able to tell gritty stories while keeping his characters fresh, exciting, and likeable.
Then the film rights sold.
