“Excellent! Now, enough of this soppy nonsense: Let’s get inside before all the cupcakes go.”
* * *
Before long, the bookshop was crammed with people drinking warm white wine and chatting loudly. Some of them I didn’t recognize, publishing types my team had invited, but there were lots of wonderful familiar faces too. The Cake Expectations gang were there in force, Enzo wearing an “I♥?Spicy Romance” T-shirt in my honor, and Gerald, the owner, proudly telling everyone that I got the inspiration for the novel from his café. Bianca’s family had all turned up, and Mrs. Atallah had invited Bilal, who looked deeply out of place in his suit and tie. There were new friends of mine too: the members of the writing group I’d joined last year, and a number of friends from the boot camp I’d started attending in Tufnell Park, thanks to whom I no longer nearly died every time I ran. I tried to chat with everyone, receiving hugs and congratulations, but the whole thing was a total whirlwind.
At half seven, Emma came to find me. “It’s time for the speeches. You ready?”
I nodded, following her to where Jing had erected a tiny stage in front of the window. The room fell hushed as Jing started to speak, introducing me and the book, and I kept my eyes fixed on her because I knew that if I looked out at the crowd, my heart might explode with happiness. After she’d finished, Emma stepped forward and said a fewlovely words about me, too, and I felt an immense rush of gratitude for this remarkable woman who had quite literally changed my life.
Finally, it was my turn to speak. I swallowed, aware of everyone’s eyes on me.
“Thank you all for coming,” I said, my voice croaky with emotion. “I’m not very good at public speaking, and if I start saying thank you to people, then I’ll probably burst into tears. So instead, I’m going to read the opening chapter of the book. I hope that’s OK.”
There was a mumble of ascent from the guests, and I heard Enzo shout, “Go, Zoe!”
I smiled and took a deep breath, opening the book I was holding and turning to page one.
“If you’ve ever visited London’s West End, you may 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.”
My mouth felt horribly dry and I faltered, but when I glanced up, I saw B and Mrs. Atallah smiling at me, so I cleared my throat and carried on. I read the line about dick lit books, which elicited a cheer from Bianca, and then I read about the rain shower and my see-through dress and falling through the front door. I’d spoken these words out loud hundreds of times since I first wrote them, always focusing on how much I needed Nick and Maggie here so I could be happy again. But this time, as I read the chapter to my friends and loved ones, I instead allowed my memory to float back to that first day I stumbled into Baskerville Books. I remembered the ring of the bell above the door and the polished floor underfoot, the wooden shelves and the smell of paper and vanilla, which was still the same today. I saw Nick in his blue shirt, and I drank him in: the way his pupils dilated when he first saw me, andhow he mussed his hair when he got annoyed. And even though it was only in my head, I felt such a rush of love for this wonderful, grumpy, handsome man, that however much it might hurt, I knew I would never regret falling into his bookshop and asking for an Emily Henry book. I’d never regret anything that happened, because if it wasn’t for Nick, then I’d never have met Mr. Darcy, and might never have started writing again or opened up my life to new friends and experiences that brought me such happiness. And although I finally accepted that the book magic was gone and I would never see Nick or Maggie again, I knew I was going to be all right. I was surrounded by people I loved, I’d fulfilled my dream of writing a book, and I was already planning the next one. As Mrs. Atallah said, I deserved to feel really fucking good about myself.
“And so, dear reader, I thrust the copy ofPride and Prejudiceinto my bag, I turned, and I ran.”
I stopped reading, my eyes still on the page, and then I heard the room erupt into applause. I knew this was a forgiving crowd—everyone here was always going to pretend they loved it, even if it was terrible—but I still allowed myself to bask in their congratulations. I glanced up and saw Bianca jumping up and down as she clapped, Enzo wolf-whistling, and Mrs. Atallah surreptitiously drying her eyes. I grinned at them all, willing myself to take in every face and commit this amazing, joyful moment to memory.
My eyes reached the far side of the room and stopped.
A man was standing up behind the counter, dusting down his blue shirt. He had messy blond hair and a chiseled jawline, and as he turned to look at me, I saw his face break into a smile.
Nick.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Jesus, Zoe, you’re going to kill me! That thing you just did when you…”
Nick trailed off, and I grinned as I collapsed next to him, sending up a silent thank-you to all the romance authors whose spicy books had taught me to know what I wanted in bed, and to not be afraid to ask for it. Mr. Wickham, who’d been sitting on the end of the bed watching us like a little pervert, let out an indignant meow and jumped inelegantly to the floor, padding out of the room in disgust.
“You can’t blame me,” I panted. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’m not complaining: If this is how I die, it’s a great way to go.”
I laughed as he scooped his arm around me, pulling me back into his body. It had been twenty-four hours since Nick had reappeared in Cupid Books, and during that time, we’d not left my flat. I knew that at some point we’d have to emerge into the world again: I was supposed to be publicizing my book, and while Gerald had been sympathetic about me taking a few days off, I was due in for a shift at Cake Expectations on Monday. As for Nick, he had to go to the police, or the council,or whoever the hell you had to talk to when you’d been missing-presumed-dead for two years. But I wasn’t ready to share my back-from-the-book boyfriend with the world just yet.
“I still can’t believe you’re really here,” I said, wrapping my arm around him as if he might suddenly disappear again. “It is the actual you, isn’t it? I haven’t read a fictional version of you out of my book, and the real you is still stuck inPride and Prejudice?”
Nick laughed. “I think it’s the real me—I mean, I remember everything that happened inPride and Prejudiceand before that—but maybe book boyfriend me would think that too?”
I frowned, trying to work it out, and Nick laughed again and kissed the top of my head.
“Either way, I’m bloody happy to be here. My mum was always confident you and I would be reunited, but I’ll be honest, given my mistrust of happy-ever-afters, I wasn’t so sure.”
I looked up so I could see his face. “You know I never stopped trying to read you both out, don’t you? Even though I thought it might be hopeless, not a day has gone by when I haven’t tried.”
“And I hopeyouknow that I never blamed you for us being stuck in that novel. I knew the risks I was taking when I got my great-aunt to read me in.”
“And yet you did it anyway,” I said, burying my face in his chest.
“Of course I did. As ridiculous as this may sound, the first day you walked into my shop, I knew my life would never be the same again. I was a goner the second I saw you.”
