Chapter One
If you’ve ever visited London’s West End, you might well have walked past Baskerville Books. It’s situated in Cecil Court, a narrow thoroughfare between the bustling theaters and restaurants of Charing Cross Road and St. Martin’s Lane, just a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square. Venturing into Cecil Court is like stepping back into Victorian London. Ornate hand-painted signs hang above the shops, advertising antiques dealers and art galleries, and every December, Londoners congregate there to sing Christmas carols and drink mulled wine, like something out of a Richard Curtis movie.
Anyway, you might have noticed I said “walkedpastBaskerville Books,” as opposed to walkedintoit. That’s because if, like me, you’re a book-loving woman, chances are you’ll have glanced in the shop’s window, given a weary sigh or a knowing eye roll, and kept on walking. It’s not that there’s anything sinister or wrong with the window, per se. It’s just that it’s filled with what my best friend, Bianca, and I refer to as “dick lit”: books written by middle-aged men, for middle-aged men. There are different genres within dick lit, such as “Action DL” (oftenfeaturing plots to overthrow governments, car chases, and superfluous women with prominent breasts), “Motivational DL” (with titles like50 Rules for Being a Real Man), and “Literary DL” (which are overly long, utterly pretentious, and win all the big literary prizes). Baskerville Books is a first-class example of a dick lit–oriented shop, its window display screamingWomen not welcome: Take your hormones elsewhere.
It was for this reason that I’d never set foot in there, even though I must have walked past it hundreds of times in the seven years I’d worked in nearby Covent Garden. And I don’t think I’d have ever gone in if it weren’t for the sudden biblical downpour that opened up on me as I was walking to meet Bianca for our Wednesday-night drinks. Given it was the first week of September and the weather app had promised temperatures of twenty-eight degrees and blue skies, I’d left the house that morning wearing a floaty white sundress and flip-flops, without so much as a thought for umbrellas or raincoats. So the second the skies opened, I was drenched. To make matters worse, the fabric of my dress immediately turned transparent, displaying to the world the black knickers I’d unadvisedly put on because they were the only clean pair I had. In a blind panic, I ran to the nearest shop, tugged on the door, and fell inside in a heap of swear words, sodden hair, and see-through cotton.
I looked up, disoriented, and then I spotted a novel by Lee Child and my heart sank. For a second, I considered reversing back outside and taking my chances with the elements, when a crack of thunder warned me otherwise. Instead, I stared longingly out the window, cursing myself for ever having trusted the wretched British weather.
“Sorry, we’re about to close,” a voice said behind me.
I turned to see a man emerging from a door at the back of the shop, carrying an enormous pile of books that obscured his face.
“Please, can I hide in here for a minute? It’s chucking it down out there.”
There was a distinct tut from behind the books. “You can stay while I put out this new stock, but then I need to lock up.”
“Thanks.”
I glanced around the shop, taking it in properly for the first time. From the boring, slightly dusty window display, I’d imagined it would be neglected and uninviting inside, but it was actually beautiful. Tall oak bookcases lined every wall, each crammed with books in a slightly chaotic but charming way, and cozy-looking chairs were tucked into the nooks and crannies. Tables were scattered around the main floor, and the whole place had that papery, faintly vanilla-y smell shared by all good bookshops. I wandered over to the nearest shelf and scanned my eyes along until I saw Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’sHalf of a Yellow SunandThe Handmaid’s Taleby Margaret Atwood. Maybe this place wasn’t as bad as I’d always thought?
“Do you have a romance section?” I called over my shoulder as I walked along the wall of bookcases.
“No,” came the bookseller’s brief-but-to-the-point reply.
Disappointing, but not a massive surprise, given the higgledy-piggledy nature of the shop. “Do you have the latest Emily Henry in?”
“Emily who?”
Seriously?I turned to look at the man. He had his back to me as he shelved books, but he was tall and dressed in jeans and a pale-blue shirt. I could make out the muscles in his broad shoulders as he reached up to the top shelf.
“Emily Henry,” I said. “You know,Beach Read,Book Lovers?”
“Sorry, not heard of her.”
“You must have! She’s one of the bestselling romance authors of the past ten years.”
There was an audible sigh as the man turned around, and I got myfirst look at his face. He had messy, dark-blond hair—the kind that made it look like he’d just rolled out of bed even though it was 6:00 p.m.—and a sharp jawline dusted with stubble. His eyes were a bright, icy blue, the same color as his shirt, and I saw his pupils dilate as they fell on me. I would have felt flattered, only when I glanced down, I saw that the front of my dress was completely transparent, showing my nipples off in a way any dick lit author would be proud of. I quickly put a hand up to cover my chest, hoping my face hadn’t turned as red as it felt.
He coughed to clear his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have any of her books in stock. You can try Goldsboro Books, they’re just up the—”
“I know where Goldsboro is, thank you very much. I just can’t believe you work in a bookshop and you’ve never heard of Emily Henry. What about Julia Quinn?”
He shook his head.
“Beth O’Leary?”
“Nope.”
“Talia Hibbert? Come on! How about Ali Hazelwood or Casey McQuiston?”
“I feel like this could go on all evening,” he said.
“What about Jane Austen? If you tell me you haven’t heard of her, then I might have to walk over there and punch you.”
The man arched an eyebrow, and I saw the side of his mouth twitch. “I am aware of her. But if you’re asking me whether I sell books by any of these authors, the answer is no. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to close up.”
He stepped toward the front door and pulled it open, but I stayed where I was, my arms crossed resolutely over my chest.
