The Little Bookshop of Love Stories: A gorgeous feel good romance to escape with this summer!

by Jaimie Admans

  There’s been an increase of customers coming into the shop too. Locals want to come in and chat about the books, and people have stopped by to look for inscriptions we haven’t found yet and left with arms full of books, and there’s been a few people saying they saw us online and a couple of selfies taken outside. We’ve turned the front window into a shrine to the messages too. Dimitri’s chalked a tree at each side with heart-shaped green leaves, and pink hearts falling from their boughs to collect along the bottom of the glass, and the display is scattered with confetti and full of the books with the most romantic messages.

  I still feel the same flitter of excitement when Dimitri knocks on the door, and I love that I can see the size of his smile even through the glass as I rush to open it.

  ‘Hello!’ He greets me with the same cheerful greeting that got under my skin from the very first day, but now he leans in for a kiss too, except he’s so loaded down with bags that I can’t reach him properly.

  ‘What’s all this?’ I ask as I bundle him in and close up again because there’s still half an hour until opening time.

  ‘I told you I’d bake for the occasion.’

  ‘Greggs wouldn’t have baked this much for a new store opening. You must’ve been up half the night.’

  ‘Nope, all the night, but let’s not worry about that. I’ve already had so much coffee that I may not be liable for my actions.’

  ‘Dimitri …’

  ‘I want this to be a massive success for you. You deserve this. Finding these notes was all down to you and your belief in love and happy endings. You deserve this shop to be found by people who love it as much as you do. Baking a few cakes was the least I could do.’

  We’ve advertised this open day as far and wide as possible. I’ve gone over budget on social media advertising and promoting posts. We’ve printed out flyers and put them up everywhere that would let us, and other shops on the street have been massively supportive and put them up in their windows and on their counters. We’re offering free tea and coffee and Dimitri offered to bake some goodies, although I didn’t expect this much. I watch as he hoists cool bags up onto the counter and starts setting out piles of tiny book-shaped biscuits onto the fancy plates Robert left behind in one of the kitchen cupboards.

  ‘These look amazing.’ Obviously I pinch one of the tiny, artisanal delights that look like something you’d find in a fancy French patisserie. They’re the most gorgeous little biscuits in the shape of books – chocolate-flavoured shortbread wrapped around sheets of marzipan that’s scored to look like pages. I pop it into my mouth and nearly swoon on the spot because they taste even better than they look and they look amazing. I reach over and take another one. ‘Is there no end to your talents?’ I nudge my elbow against his arm, wondering how on earth I got so lucky. I’ve always thought men like him didn’t exist, but sharing my life with him is a million times better than any fairy-tale romance book I’ve ever read, and I still can’t believe I get to call him mine.

  ‘How many people do you think are going to turn up?’ I ask as he starts getting boxes full of cupcakes and trays of colourfully decorated gingerbread in the shape of tulips out too. ‘You seem to be expecting Canada. All of it.’

  ‘Hopefully a lot.’ He shrugs. ‘I was working on an “if you bake it, they will come” motto.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do all this. I didn’t expect—’

  ‘Actually, I wanted to thank you. Thank you for letting me stay on that first day. Thank you for letting me use this stupidly expensive book without buying it. Thank you for finding that note from my mum and turning your whole shop upside down to hunt for more. Thank you for giving me a home for my artwork.’ He swallows hard. ‘I think when you’re caring for someone else, you lose yourself a little bit, but I’ve found myself again in this shop. It’s reminded me of who I used to be and the things I loved. The only thing I ever wanted to do with my life was drawing, and that had faded in recent years, but being here has brought back my passion for it. I’m getting the joy out of it that I used to get. I’m one step closer to following my dreams because of you. You’ve made me believe that anything is possible.’

  He nods towards the spinnable display stand near the counter, which is currently full of the hand-painted greeting cards he showed me in the ballroom the other day, featuring depictions of famous books and copyright-free quotes from them. They’re the most gorgeous designs, from one of Peter Pan and Tinker Bell featuring the well-known flying instructions, to Alice falling down the rabbit hole and another one at the Mad Hatter’s tea party with ‘There’s always time for tea’ written in the cups on the table. There are the book versions of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Mary Poppins, Robin Hood, and the silhouetted characters from The Wizard of Oz with Dorothy wearing sparkly ruby slippers as they walk down a yellow brick road with ‘There’s no place like home’ written above the sunset.

  They’re absolutely amazing, and I’m proud to have a display of them in the shop. ‘People are going to love them.’ I nudge his arm again, making him drop one of the biscuits he’s still setting out, which cracks in half when it hits the plate, giving me a chance to lean over and snatch the two pieces away. Can’t offer customers broken biscuits, obviously.

  ‘I’m the lucky one, Dimitri,’ I say with my mouth full of the most delicious melty book-shaped biscuit I’ve ever tasted. Not that I’ve eaten a lot of book-shaped biscuits, but I’m pretty sure I’ll never again eat one as good as this. ‘I’m getting to sell the work of a future best-selling author. When you’re the next J.K. Rowling, I’m going to put up a plaque saying your first works were sold here.’

  He laughs. ‘It’s not fair for you to say things like that when I’m this jittery from coffee.’

  ‘Seriously.’ I nudge him again, not for the purpose of stealing broken biscuits this time. ‘You’ve done so much for me too. You’ve helped me with everything. You’re like a second member of staff but you won’t let me pay any wages. You’ve ignored your own deadline in favour of helping me, and I’m sure you’re going to be in trouble with your publishers sooner or later, even if you say you aren’t.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘You’ve made me feel normal with my book obsession. You’ve made me unafraid to be myself. I’ve always tried to hide how awkward and clumsy I am, and I’ve always tried to play down how many books I have and how much time I spend reading and living vicariously through book characters’ lives instead of going out and actually living my own, but meeting you has … I don’t know, it’s like you’ve given me permission to be myself. You’ve shown me that there are people like me out there, people who will “get” me, and I’ve been looking in the wrong places and trying to be someone else until now. And I was totally out of my depth when I started here. I didn’t even realise how much until the first day, and your quiet presence, constant reassurance, and your belief in me being able to do this has made me feel less and less out of my depth every day, and now it really does feel like I’m starting anew and opening a new shop today. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been here …’

  He cuts me off with a kiss, and even though I can hear the ticking of the clock counting down towards nine, it’s impossible not to get lost in his closeness, his wood and charcoal aftershave mingling with the almondy scent of the biscuits and wrapping itself around me in place of his hands, which are still occupied with Tupperware containers and plates.

  His forehead stays on mine. ‘Hal, I need to tell you som—’

  He’s cut off by a knock on the door, and I look up to see a guy with a TV camera on his shoulder outside the window, waiting with other people.

  ‘That’s the local news!’ I spot a logo on the camera through the window and start frantically trying to smooth my hair down and dash across to open the door and let in a journalist, producer, and cameraman.

  Dimitri ducks into the office as they take photos of me behind the counter and start filming the tree of printed paper leaves, while I take the
copy of Les Mis from the window display and show them the note to Esme. It’s so close to nine that it isn’t long before customers start filtering in too.

  No one loves bookshops or love stories more than me, but even I’m surprised by the number of people who come in. Judging by the interest in the paper-leafed tree, it’s not just for the free coffee and cake. People are wandering through the shop, pulling books off the shelves and searching them for messages. Some are regulars I’ve seen before and some are strangers. Some seem to be looking for something specific and some seem content to browse. Within five minutes of being open, I’ve made seven sales, which definitely deserves a spot in the Guinness World Records. I don’t think I’d make that many if there was a new Harry Potter out and we were the only shop in England to stock it.

  One of the first people to arrive is a man in his sixties who points to the copy of Treasure Island currently displayed in the window, along with the tin and toy car that Dimitri’s cleaned up, and I beckon him over from where he’s currently making a coffee and two orange squashes for a mum and daughters while they nibble on book biscuits. I think Dimitri would be less excited if Long John Silver himself walked into the shop. I’ve never seen someone so happy to see someone else before.

  The man cradles the rusty little car in the palm of his hand. ‘I buried it when I was six years old. My father gave it to me on my birthday. My little brother was always taking my toys and I didn’t want him to ruin it or lose it, so I hid it where only I’d be able to find it. My dad died later that year and we moved away from Buntingorden. I’d forgotten all about it until I saw the story on the sidebar of a news site and clicked on it because I recognised Once Upon A Page from when I was a lad.’

  ‘Thank you for making me feel like a child again,’ Dimitri says.

  ‘How magnificent books are,’ the man says. ‘For my map to lead complete strangers to this all these years later is just wonderful.’

  Dimitri hugs him like an old friend, and I give him the car, tin, and book that he kindly insists on paying for, which leaves me in no doubt that bookish people are the best people.

  I’m so busy with customers that I don’t notice the clock ticking towards eleven a.m. until a lady of roughly my age with strawberry-blonde hair around her shoulders comes up to the counter. ‘Are you Hallie?’

  I smile because I’ve already got an inkling about who she is. ‘Mindy?’

  ‘Hi. I was so excited when you called. Your shop is amazing, even better than it looked online.’

  I still feel a jolt of excitement whenever anyone calls it ‘my’ shop because I still can’t believe it is mine. Mindy knows we were trying to find Brandon on social media, but she doesn’t know that he found us, or that when we asked her to stop by at eleven o’clock this morning, we’ve also asked him to do the same.

  She clasps her hands together. ‘I can’t wait to know, did you find him?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ Dimitri appears beside me with such a huge grin that it instantly gives everything away.

  Thankfully she doesn’t have to wait long. As she pretends to browse the books near the counter, but I suspect is really just hovering, a man comes in and I recognise him from his Twitter profile photo.

  He lifts a hand in greeting and it’s almost cartoon-like how his hand stills in mid-air and he turns towards Mindy.

  She jumps when he says her name.

  My hand tightens around Dimitri’s forearm as we stand back, and it’s like watching a scene from a film unfold right in front of us.

  Their eyes meet across the crowded room, and I can almost hear the love song reaching a crescendo in the background. It’s just like when Kate Beckinsale and John Cusack meet again in the film. Minus the ice and gently falling snowflakes, obviously.

  ‘It’s you …’

  ‘It’s you. After all these years …’

  They walk towards each other in slow motion. Well, it feels like slow motion, but really it’s just regular motion because we’re not actually in a rom com movie.

  The journalists in the shop have clocked what’s going on and camera flashes start going off. Mindy and Brandon both gave their permission to post their story online and the three newspapers have all picked up on it and the possibility of a reunion today was a huge draw for getting reporters down here.

  ‘Are you sing …’ Mindy starts, but her voice catches.

  ‘You’re both single,’ Dimitri interjects. ‘And you’ve both been looking.’

  The relief that floods Mindy is visible, and Brandon’s smile is wider than an advert for teeth whitener, and without hesitation, he marches across the shop, slides his hand up her jaw and pulls her in for a kiss.

  It’s gentle and respectful and they both look like they want it to carry on a lot longer than it does.

  ‘I’ve been waiting fifteen years to do that,’ Brandon says when they pull apart.

  ‘I looked at every fiver. I made my friends empty out their purses every time I saw them. I was devastated when the notes were retired. I’d given up. I never thought …’ Mindy looks a bit overcome.

  ‘I’ve been in every charity shop and bookshop looking for that book.’ Brandon looks at me and Dimitri. ‘And then it found me.’

  ‘In my experience, books do that,’ I say.

  They smile at each other, almost drinking in every line on the other’s face as Brandon’s finger trails down Mindy’s flushed cheek. They must lose all sense of time because they suddenly seem to snap out of it and realise they’ve got an audience.

  ‘Can I take you for a coffee?’ Brandon asks.

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ Mindy replies.

  ‘For the love of all things bookish, exchange numbers this time, will you?’ Dimitri says, making everyone nearby laugh.

  They pose for a couple of photos for the journalists, and one of the four of us holding the copy of the book between us, before they come up to the counter to say goodbye.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mindy says. ‘I can’t believe you did this. All of this from one little book.’

  ‘Thank you both.’ I feel perilously close to tears at how lovely this all is. ‘This is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever seen in my life.’

  ‘You see? Books go on forever. Money is fallible but a book has saved the day.’ Dimitri nudges me as Mindy insists on paying for the book and they take it with them, exactly where it’s supposed to be.

  After Mindy and Brandon leave for their coffee, with a joking promise to invite us to their wedding, a promise that I hope – and judging by the looks on their faces, think – won’t be such a joke after all, I feel such a warm glow. I want to work in this lovely place forever. I never expected to get this far – nearly two months down the line, to not only still be here, but to also be celebrating my busiest day so far, with a man who makes me believe in happy endings, and for the main point of this day to be hidden messages inside books, something I’ve always had a low-level obsession with and never understood why. It feels like every moment in my life was meant to lead here.

  I look around the bookshop and listen to the quiet soundtrack of a low hum of music from a customer’s earbuds as he comes up to pay. There are people standing around everywhere, heads in books, fingers stroking over spines and tilting holographic covers. The book club have obviously heard rumours of biscuits because they arrive in twos and threes, Tilda, Hilda, Milda/Vilda, Pauline and Francine, trailing husbands and grandchildren behind them. Barbara and Percy follow, and I appreciate Dimitri’s quick thinking in hastily hiding a batch of book-shaped marzipan biscuits before they decimate the lot.

  One of the loveliest things is how every other shop owner on the street comes in and buys something. Either a book, or a mug, a notebook, a tote bag, or one of Dimitri’s greeting cards. I’ve got to know them all by sight over the last few weeks, but I find myself tearing up a bit when they come in one by one throughout the morning, look at the tree, browse the shelves, and come over to pay for their purchases, and s
ay things like, ‘I’ve always known there was something special about this shop’ and ‘Good on you for bringing hope back to Buntingorden.’

  The local news have gone, leaving only their cameraman behind, and someone reporting for BuzzFeed has turned up. There’s a social media influencer taking pictures of each leaf on the tree, and someone from the local tourist information centre is considering adding us to one of his brochures and is sitting quietly in the corner, observing and occasionally scribbling something in his notebook, and just when it feels like every person in Buntingorden and a good patch of the surrounding villages too are squashed into the shop, Drake Farrer strides in.

  I’m behind the counter with a queue of three customers so he joins the back of the line and starts looking around and sighing, tapping his foot like an annoyed Sonic The Hedgehog when you put the Sega Megadrive controller down for a minute as a child. I try to take as much time as possible with the customers to further add to his irritation because of all things someone like Drake Farrer deserves, being kept waiting is the least of them. Eventually I can’t make small talk any longer and have to hand the last customer her paper bag and wait for Drake Farrer to approach.

  As usual, he looks the epitome of sophistication, so smooth and well-kempt that you could say someone had pushed him through a hedge forwards. His navy suit doesn’t have so much as a stray cat hair or bit of fluff on it, and his face is strangely absent of laughter lines, making it look as unnaturally smooth as his dark hair under all that wet-look gel.

  ‘Mr Farrer.’ I paste on my falsest smile. ‘I should’ve known you’d be in today. Couldn’t let readers enjoy something without coming to rain on our parade, could you?’

  Instead of speaking, Drake Farrer holds up a book by a corner between his thumb and forefinger, keeping it away from himself like he might catch something from it. The rest of it is dangling down from the edge of the cover he’s holding, having clearly been sliced almost completely through the middle, dropped in the river, and any remaining pages hacked into as many little pieces as possible. He drops it onto the counter where it lands with a clunk and scatters pieces of wet paper across the wooden surface. ‘Returning your trash.’