The Bookshop on the Corner

by Rebecca Raisin

  He gave me the once-over, a very slow up and down, that made me shrink under his scrutiny. “You look more like a romance reader to me.”

  I squared my shoulders. “And what exactly does a romance reader look like?”

  “Let’s see.” He scratched his chin as if he was contemplating. “She’s tiny, like a doll. Has perfectly cut black bangs, which highlight her mesmerizing doe eyes. Nervous around strangers, unaware that her hands flutter like the wings of a butterfly when she’s thinking things she doesn’t want anyone to know...”

  I gasped, and put my hands behind my back.

  “Her voice is husky, betraying her desires...”

  “Okay, stop. What’s with all the flowery prose? Are you a romance writer? Are you one of those men who moonlight as Cindi Lovenest, or something, to help sell more books?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

  He laughed, throwing his head back, and showed his perfect white teeth. No actually, this wasn’t a romance novel, let me adjust that—he laughed, throwing his head back, and showed his perfect white teeth, which would one day in the near future, possibly ten years or so away, be not as white. There.

  “I am a writer. Just not a romance writer. I’m a reporter from New York.”

  “A reporter from New York, hey? Aha, let me guess, you want a self-help book? How to have it all? How to avoid living the cliché? No, wait, how to make every minute count?”

  He put a hand to his chest and scoffed. “I detect sarcasm! Do you think us New Yorkers are that bad, really?”

  I shrugged. “I only know what I read.”

  “Which is romance.”

  “Bloody, gory, zombie-loving horror with chain saws, and ninja stars, and a little true crime, remember.”

  “Liar.”

  It was not like me to be so extroverted, and I didn’t usually think so...lewdly. This stranger had some weird kind of pull over me, eking out a different Sarah from the one who actually existed. Gone was the girl in a corner, nose in a book, somehow replaced with a girl expertly flirting, using fast-paced banter with someone who was definitely not my type. Too handsome was too hard.

  But he smelled good. Not of the tree-bark, glorious man-sweat, musky he-scent, rather I’ve-doused-myself-with-some-male-perfume-that-smells-a-little-like-cotton-candy, and spice, making me consider taking a quick nibble of his skin. This was of course highly inappropriate and a little weird.

  He ran a hand through his dark too-long hair. See, too-long? He was the epitome of a romance-novel hero. And it wasn’t a cliché, it just was a little too long, in that it curled around his ears in an enticing way that would make women want to tuck it behind for him. It was a ploy, and I bet he knew it. He looked around midthirties and had examined what women read about, and, I’d bet, copied the brief, right down to, well...his briefs. I had a twenty-second battle with my eyes, which were trying to drop their gaze to see if his underwear was the usual hero style.

  “Anyway... Mr.?”

  “Ridge.”

  “Mr. Ridge—”

  “No, it’s Ridge. Ridge Warner.”

  I snorted, which I tried to cover with a fake hiccup. I hated that I couldn’t control my snorts. “Your name is Ridge? Like from The Bold and the Beautiful?”

  “Maybe my mom was a fan of the show? Who knows?” Mirth danced around in his blue goddamn sexy hero eyes.

  “Ridge,” I managed to sputter. I couldn’t stop laughing. I just couldn’t.

  “And what’s your name?”

  Internal sigh. Could it be any plainer? “Sarah. Sarah Smith.”

  He pursed his lips. “Sounds like an alias to me. I mean, is this really a bookshop or a front for your spy business? Are you CIA?”

  “FBI, actually.” I grinned at him, before catching myself. This little exchange was fun, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe a big-city reporter would be interested in me. That would only happen in a fairy tale. “So, what can I help you with, Ridge?” I was almost certain I managed to hide the lip wobble by clamping my teeth down, and looking away. Ridge. I had to stop thinking of his name or I’d never compose myself.

  “Have you got any Keats?”

  “A poetry man—color me surprised.”

  I was about to amble to the poetry section when he caught my arm. I tingled from his touch, but tried to mask it by whistling. Whistling? He must’ve thought I was cuckoo.

  “Also, I’d like to interview you. I’m doing a story about Ashford, the little town making waves with its specialty shops.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “A New York paper wants a story on the shops in Ashford, Connecticut? Is news that slow?” Our tiny town wouldn’t even be on the radar for ninety-nine percent of New Yorkers.

  “Yep, seems there’s a lot going for this town. What with the Gingerbread Café, and the recent chocolate festival. The shop that sells furniture made from the wood of old boats. It’s a feel-good piece. You never know, it might just bring some tourists to your quaint little shop.”

  Quaint. I didn’t know why, but he made the word sound dusty. A little secondhand.

  “And which paper is this?”

  “The New York Herald.”

  Gasping, I brushed my hand along the top of a book, while I pondered. The New York Herald was one of the biggest newspapers in the world.

  “And you, Sarah Smith, with your suddenly successful blog...largely about romance books.” I colored. Of course, he knew about the blog, hence the romance-reader banter. And he knew my name, though pretended he didn’t. He’d researched, and then gave me textbook lines. And I’d fallen for it.

  “What’s the angle for the story?” I asked huffily.

  “Little town makes good, something like that. Why?” He laughed, a deep rich sound. “You seem suspicious. Is it your FBI training that makes you question everything?”

  Oh, boy. Why did he have to be so disarming, and funny?

  “I just know New Yorkers, that’s all. And more often than not, in my experience, they don’t come to small towns and heap praise on them. They stick to their huge city, with their indefatigable spirits, and try and cram as many things into one day to be able to call themselves successful. It’s like a competition to see who’s better. Every. Single. Day.”

  He cocked his head, his small smile slipping. “You’ve been to New York?”

  “Well...no. I have no desire to be crushed in the throng of people racing through their day. I’m a small-town girl, always will be.”

  “Not everyone is like that. Maybe I could show you around NYC sometime?” His megawatt smile was firmly back in place.

  I let out a “hum” that sounded slightly strangled. It wasn’t as though I didn’t understand the appeal of big cities; it was just our cozy little town was so easy to live in. And perfect for people like me who were happiest hiding in a book nook with their fictional friends.

  “So, can I interview you for the piece?”

  I shook my head. “A secondhand bookshop? I don’t think so. And my blog is a place where women feel comfortable talking about things that are of no concern to fast-living men. Why don’t you ask Lil and Cee from the Gingerbread Café? They’re the ones who are trying new things, and putting Ashford on the map.”

  Lil owned the cute-as-a-button Gingerbread Café across the road, and worked alongside CeeCee, the most effervescent human on earth. They’d built the tiny café up over the years into a successful business.

  “Fast-living men?” he continued. “I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or an insult. I’ve just come from the Gingerbread Café.” He patted his six-pack. “They plied me full of sweets. Fun girls. But what about you? This shop...” He turned to survey it, and I wondered for a minute what he must make of it. I tried looking through a stranger’s eyes at the books haphazardly piled on the floor. The shelves were double stacked, and skewed. It was gloomy, and musty, and smelt like
old parchment. And that was what I loved about it. It wasn’t shiny and new and filled with light. It was a place for words, and a place for quiet. A harmless little alcove where you could loll on a faded half-empty beanbag, pull over a garish-colored throw blanket and while the afternoon away reading. It wasn’t unusual for me to stumble and trip over a boot of someone snoozing, as they had read themselves to slumber.

  He sighed softly, bringing me back to the moment. “It’s similar to a timeworn Parisian bookshop. Like there’s buried treasure here, if you just spend some time hunting for it.”

  I held in a shriek of yes! Mr. Rippling Abs had it spot on. It was like a Paris bookshop. An old, forgotten, hidden little gem of a place, where time stopped, and the only thing that mattered was a good metaphor, or an awe-inspiring paragraph. A sentence that made you close the book and think of the way twenty-six letters could be arranged to make something so miraculous, something that spoke to you, almost as if it were written especially for you.

  He looked deeply into my eyes as if he was trying to read me. “Aha. So Paris is okay in your books?”

  Wistful, I said, “Of course—doesn’t every girl dream of Paris?”

  He inched closer and said, “Some dream about kissing under the Eiffel Tower, and strolling along the Champ de Mars...”

  I gulped, and held back a sigh of longing as I pictured myself strolling hand-in-hand along the cobblestoned streets of Paris.

  “Sarah... Sarah?”

  “Oui?” I blinked the fantasy away and felt myself color. Oui? I couldn’t believe I just said that! This man was making me go completely loopy.

  He laughed as I retreated back to the safety of the counter. “Mademoiselle, you won’t change your mind about being interviewed by moi?”

  I threw him a dark look and fiddled with the books stacked precariously on the desk before muffling a reply. “I’m very busy, actually. So if you’d like a poetry book, you’ll find a stack near the beanbags at the back...”

  His face dropped, but I couldn’t tell if it was because I’d said no to the interview or the fact I couldn’t quite meet his gaze. I wasn’t brave enough to. The way I was thinking, I’d have us married off any minute. And men from out of town were a big no. No matter how ruggedly handsome, and sexy smelling, and funny, and flirty, and downright edible, and—

  “Shame, you would have made an excellent subject.”

  “Yes, a frightful shame. A very good morning to you. Good day.” Oh, dear, I’d gone from bumbling romantic to posh Londoner. I fought the urge to laugh at my awkwardness. Once Ridge left, I was going to be meeting Missy at the Gingerbread Café. I’d replay my woes to her and the girls and see what they made of it. And I’d eat my weight in chocolate while I was there.

  He tapped the top of the counter, and gave me a questioning look. “People don’t usually say no to me.”

  “Is that so?” He looked truly baffled at my rejection. I guessed big shots like him always got their way. “You know what they say: every no brings you one step closer to a yes. Try someone else.” I smiled benignly.

  “You are one in a million, Sarah,” he replied, grinning. “Here’s my card, in case you change your mind, or if you want a tour of New York one day.”

  I looked under my lashes at him—because that was what girls did in books when they weren’t sure how to act—and took the proffered card. “Nice to meet you, Ridge.”

  “I’ll be back.” He winked, and walked out into the sunlight.

  Once he’d gone I tried to pretend that the last ten minutes weren’t something extraordinary in my habitually quiet life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU SAID WHAT?” CeeCee screeched, her forehead wrinkling.

  I shrugged, and fell back into the softness of the couch. “He made me feel a little unhinged, demented even, so I just kind of said, well, that New Yorkers were a little shallow. I didn’t actually use the word shallow...”

  CeeCee slapped her leg, and let out a guffaw. “Oh, Sarah, good Lord, you don’t see what he seein’! He was probably tryin’ to ask you on a date, and you mock him over livin’ in a big city?”

  “I suggested a few self-help books—that’s all. Is that bad?” I covered my face with my hands.

  CeeCee hemmed and hawed to herself. “Lotsa people have long-distance relationships these days, you know. There’s that Spacebook, and Tweeter...”

  I giggled at CeeCee, and nodded. “Ah, yes, Spacebook, of course. And long-distance relationships? I think you’re jumping the gun somewhat, Cee! I am not interested in him, at all.” No siree, Bob. Zilch, zip, nada. But the visions of his man crease...

  Lil wandered over with a tray of drinks. The Gingerbread Café was empty of customers after the lunch rush. I’d waited for it to slow down before I wandered over from the bookshop, leaving a Back in Ten sign on my door.

  “So,” Lil said, plonking down next to me. “You must admit he’s one fine specimen of a man.”

  Laughter barreled out of us. “He’s too good-looking. And he knows it.”

  CeeCee groaned and patted my knee. “You know, Ridge asked an awful lotta questions ’bout you. Seems he came to the chocolate festival way back when, and suddenly he’s back again today. All he wanted to talk about was the girl from the corner bookshop...”

  Lil nodded in agreement. “I got the feeling the article was a ruse. I think he’s smitten with our resident book-lover.”

  I gave her a playful shove. “Oh, please. He’s just nosy—it’s the reporter in him.”

  CeeCee tried to stare me down with this arched-eyebrow thing she does. “Nosy? I don’t think I’d call it nosy—more like infatuation.”

  “How could he be infatuated with someone he doesn’t even know, Cee?” I smiled. “Nope, that man is one hundred percent New Yorker, you mark my words. He’s after something, and it isn’t me.”

  Lil harrumphed and leaned into me, nudging my ribs. “Are you free Friday night?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, I have a hot date with my book boyfriend. Why?”

  “Damon and I are having a little dinner party to try out some recipes for the new catering menu, and we thought you might like to join us? CeeCee’ll be there, and a few others.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Do you even have to ask me? If there’s food involved I’ll drop that book boyfriend like he’s hot!” So I was fickle with my literary loves. Lil’s food was good enough to tempt the devil himself.

  Lil giggled and said, “So it’s a definite?”

  I tilted my head. “Yes, of course.”

  They both sputtered into their hands.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “It’s just Ridge is comin’ up from New York, see. So we figured you could sit next to each other—”

  “Why is he coming back here?” I interrupted. It was Monday, and I’d figured Ridge was interviewing people for his article today, and then we’d never see the likes of him again.

  “We just happened to mention our pretty little book-lover was going to attend the dinner party,” Lil said matter-of-factly.

  I lobbed a cushion at her. “Oh, you’re as subtle as chili in the eye, you pair of matchmakers. I thought I was going to come here for some sisterly understanding, but all you want to do is set me up with some swanky, swishy reporter, who’s perfected the come-hither look...”

  “Someone’s been bitten by the love bug,” CeeCee said, drawing the words out like a child in a singsong.

  “Cee,” I said, “you sound like you’re five!”

  “What the heck’s going on in here? I can hear your laughter all the way down to my shop!” Missy stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, grinning.

  “Oh, you know,” I said, looking up at her perfectly made-up face, “these two girls are bored or something so they’re trying to play Cupid.”

  Missy sat down on the couch next t
o CeeCee and said, “Again? Cee, didn’t you learn anything last time?” She winked at me and fluffed her auburn curls.

  CeeCee folded her arms. “What you mean last time? The last time that I remember was when that fine-looking thing, Damon, strolled into town and I had the second sight about him and Lil here. Was I wrong? No, I most certainly wasn’t! They about to get married!”

  “I’ll give you that one. Damon and Lil are a match made in heaven,” Missy said. “But the last person you tried to fix up before them was poor Sarah, when you set her up with Crazy Old Lou’s second cousin’s half brother. Or was it the first cousin’s half brother?”

  I shrank down into the couch and groaned. “It was Old Lou’s neighbor’s cousin’s half sister if I remember correctly!”

  We cackled like a coven of witches remembering that fateful hookup.

  CeeCee tried to compose herself and said between chest heaves, “Well, what kinda name is Billy for a girl?”

  Missy pulled a cushion into her lap. “It’s Billie, with an ie. S’pose it could have happened to anybody!”

  CeeCee clucked her tongue. “It was a small misunderstandin’, that’s all, but Sarah still had a good night, right?”

  I giggled at the memory. Billie with an ie and I had stared at our spaghetti, mutely, while I pondered how I’d been set up with a girl when I was heterosexual. We were both too polite to say anything, so we ate a silent dinner, watched a silent movie and then went our separate ways—silently. And that was the last time I’d agreed to step outside my comfort zone in relation to dating.

  “Anyways,” CeeCee said, “let’s put the past behind us and focus on Ridge for a second.”

  Missy’s eyes lit up and she scooted forward on her seat. “Yes! Tell me about this hunky man who’s got you girls giggling into your aprons. Did I not say a change might blow in on the wind?” She looked pointedly at me. Distracted, I noticed Missy’s cheeks were rosier than normal, even with the amount of rouge she always wore. And she had a quiet kind of sparkle about her. She was always the bubbly, animated one of the group, but she seemed more contained today, different somehow. I made a mental note to ask her later what was going on.