‘Why that day?’
‘Gives people an excuse to come to the shop,’ Quinn said. ‘Protest and champagne.’
‘Obsessed with that,’ Ivy said. ‘Are there any other suggestions?’
‘Are you still looking for another author to sign some books?’
His Welsh-accented voice, angelic, majestic, deep and soulful, rang through the room, bringing the spirit of Christmas with it. And that harmonious feeling shattered when Deb and June screamed like someone had stabbed them in Hay’s murder and mystery bookshop.
‘Is it him?’
‘Itishim!’
‘Respectfully lust, ladies,’ Ivy said. ‘Thank you for joining us, Noah.’
Quinn sought him out. Standing near the back of the room, just a few feet away from the Christmas tree. His blonde, messy hair had one loose, curled strand at his forehead. His glasses were back, giving him that studious look, and he wore a black parka coat with grey trousers, which Quinn noticed were slim fit and clung to him with shapes inallthe right places. The image of him, topless, displaying his V-cut body, flashed in Quinn’s mind. Fighting to keep his eyes at eye level, Quinn smiled at Noah, trying to feel nonchalant, even though every fibre in his being was vibrating, crying out from the hunger and the desire that ripped through his body.
‘Yes, we can make room for you to sign some books,’ Quinn said. ‘I’d be honoured.’
Their eyes met again, and Quinn took a breath, like he’d been plunged into the depths of icy water.
Then Matty No-Face came floating into the ether, and Quinn forced himself to look away from Noah, even though he wanted to study him like he was Michelangelo’s David.
Great, now I’m thinking of Noah naked.
That V-line!
‘In the meantime, spread the word about what we are facing,’ Ivy said. ‘Let your customers, your friends, your family know that we could lose this shop. We should remind each other of love, acceptance, and pride. Let’s make sure that capitalism will not prevail!’
She said these last words like a king leading his army to battle. The people applauded and cheered, getting to their feet, ready to fight.
‘Isn’t anyone going to listen to my story?’
Boo. Hiss. Bah humbug.
Harold’s voice boomed across the room, and people stopped in their tracks, turning to the Henry VIII figure in the doorway.
Harold found Quinn and walked towards him. Quinn, torn between running away and wanting to stand his ground, felt Harold’s hand on his shoulder, gripping tight. Quinn wondered if Harold was trying to hurt him.
‘We’re family,’ Harold said.
‘You’re my stepdad,’ Quinn clarified.
‘Family,’ Harold barked. ‘And family can be … complicated. Can it not?’
If Harold expected applause at this, he didn’t get any. Flustered, he cleared his throat and relinquished his grip on Quinn’s shoulder.
‘I offered Quinn a room in the castle. A simple moving of premises. Quinn decided he did not want this room that was offered.’
‘Show them the floor plans,’ Quinn said. ‘They’ll see how small that offer was.’
‘And businesses these days are online,’ Harold said, as if he hadn’t heard a word Quinn had said.
‘Most of my custom comes from physical customers,’ a bookseller at Clocktower Books said.
‘And our bookshop does better here than it does online,’ another added.
‘Mine too,’ Quinn said.
