“Hello, misogynist bookseller. You haven’t answered my question.”
“What am I doing here? I was invited.”
“By who?” Again, rude, but these were exceptional circumstances.
“Steve and I were at university together.”
I must have frowned, because Nick raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t believe me? What, you think I’m the one stalkingyounow?”
“No, you don’t strike me as the stalking type,” I admitted. “But you also don’t strike me as the rugby-playing, six-pint-drinking, secretly-crying-at-Jerry-Maguiretype that Steve usually hangs out with either.”
The eyebrow went higher. “So what typedoI strike you as?”
“I don’t know. I imagine you sitting at home on a Friday night, angrily reading Proust and smoking those smelly French cigarettes.”
“Well, you’re wrong there: I only read Proust on Saturdays, and I haven’t touched a Gauloises in years.”
I accidentally laughed and then kicked myself.
Nick smiled. “Can I get you a drink?”
I was about to say no and move away when I heard a familiar voice to my right. Shit, was that Darcy at the bar? I couldn’t let Nick see him, because if I was right and Nick knew that the copy ofPride and PrejudiceI’d stolen had magic “bring Mr. Darcy to life” powers, then the second Nick heard him speak, he might work out exactly who Darcy was and where he’d come from. And if that happened, then Nick would know I’d deliberately been keeping Darcy a secret from him, and he was bound to confront Darcy, who would then find out I’d lied to him about his identity, and then I’d lose Darcy for good just when I’d decided I wanted to be with him… Christ, this was a disaster!
“I’d love a drink, thanks,” I said, squeezing myself into the space at the bar on Nick’s left.
He looked surprised at the sudden close contact, but my plan worked, as he turned his body toward me, blocking Darcy out with his back.
Over Nick’s shoulder, I could hear Darcy’s booming voice: “Four pints of your finest beer please, my good man.”
“So, how are things in the bookselling business?” I said quickly, in case Nick heard Darcy and turned around. “Sold any good dick lit lately?”
“Dick lit?”
Oops, probably not the best question to go with. “It’s what Bianca and I call the kind of books you sell in your shop. You know, novels written by men about spies and terrorists and shit.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Spies and terrorists and shit? That’s not all I sell, you know.”
“OK, well, it’s certainly the vibe your front window gives off. It’s like you’re deliberately trying to repel women from your shop.”
I expected him to come back with some snarky reply, but instead, the hint of a smile that had been there seconds ago disappeared and he went quiet.
“On second thought, may I prevail upon you for the loan of a tray, for I fear my hands will not carry all of these?” I heard Darcy say, and it sounded like he’d moved closer along the bar.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said, tucking myself in tighter to Nick so that Darcy wouldn’t see me over his shoulder.
We were so close now that I had to tilt my head back to look up at Nick. God, this man was tall. He looked down at me, and I saw his jaw twitch.
“You didn’t offend me,” he said, his voice thick. “I’ve just never heard someone refer to my shop as selling ‘dick lit’ before.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re in good company. Hatchards is pretty dick litty too, and they’re the oldest bookshop in London.”
I saw that flicker of a smile again.
“I want to defend myself, but sadly I think there’s probably some truth in your theory,” he said. “I hosted a book launch the other week that was almost exclusively attended by white men wearing chinos, so I think that probably qualifies me under your dick lit criteria.”
“Oh yes, which book was that?”
