The Bookshop on the Corner

by Rebecca Raisin

  Damon and Lil buzzed around, filling platters with delectable morsels they conjured up as though it were a simple thing, and not food that had taken most of the day to prepare.

  “These,” said Lil, carefully placing a ceramic dish on the dining-room table, “are baby sweet peppers, stuffed with a mix of pancetta, and ricotta and parmesan, and a few secret ingredients for some wow factor, so go on and try them and tell me what you think.”

  The baby peppers were the color of traffic lights: red, orange and green. The vibrancy of them with the oozy goodness inside had me reaching for the plate before anyone else. I knew some girls couldn’t eat in front of men when they were feeling somewhat gooey, but I wasn’t like that. Especially when it was Lil’s food.

  Damon said, “If they get your vote they’ll be on the new catering menu, along with some other recipes you’ll try tonight.”

  Between mouthfuls, I said, “They get my vote!”

  One thing was certain: there wasn’t a lot of chatter while we ate. Lil and Damon were harmonious in the kitchen; they fluttered around each other, stopping every now and then for a brief kiss, before laughing their way through the preparation of the next dish. As a couple they were certainly something to aspire to.

  I tried hard not to notice Ridge’s leg directly next to mine. I was conscious of not touching it with my own leg, which had me sitting stiffly, hyperaware of his proximity. So what if our legs touched—would it be that bad? I tried to look serene as I slowly allowed my body to relax. If in my relaxed state my leg touched his, so be it.

  “Are you okay?” CeeCee asked, frowning at me.

  I tensed up, and become toy-soldier-like again. Do not cough.

  “Yes, Cee, why do you ask?”

  “Oh, it were nothin’ really, you just looked—”

  Missy interrupted, “I think she’s just contemplating the meditative effect of the food, right?”

  I threw her a grateful glance. Maybe I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought. Okay, no leg touching. Unless he touched me first.

  “So,” CeeCee said, leaning forward. “What brought you to Ashford originally, Ridge?”

  And here it went: let the interrogation begin. I sank back in my chair, and wondered if my friend’s questions would make him squirm. After all, he had to pass the friend test if I was even going to think about a date with him.

  “Well,” he said, “somehow I stumbled onto the chocolate festival Facebook page, and thought that sounded like a nice event to attend. My job allows me to travel for a story, so I figured I’d see what the town had to offer, and I’m mighty glad I did. I found something unique here, something special, that I wasn’t even looking for. Serendipity—it’s a wonderful thing.” He turned and stared into my eyes. Oh, boy. I coughed. Twice.

  * * *

  AS THE EVENING progressed we got a little rowdier after each course. The wine was flowing, and the food plentiful. Ridge charmed everyone with stories of his travels, and all the excitement he’d squished into his thirty-five years. He’d sure seen a lot of the world, and not just the pretty sunny things, either. He’d traveled to third world countries, and helped in orphanages. Flown to places after natural disasters and got his hands dirty trying to assist with rebuilding small communities. Maybe Ridge was deeper and more compassionate than I’d given him credit for. CeeCee and Missy goggle-eyed him as if he were Prince Charming; it didn’t take a genius to work out he’d won them over.

  Lil ambled over with the last dish of the night. The third dessert. I groaned as I watched her set down miniature ice creams.

  “These are creamy margarita popsicles with a circle of salted lime on top.”

  “I’m fit to burst,” Missy said, and handed her popsicle to her husband, Tommy, who’d arrived at the dinner party late after being held up at the dairy he worked at.

  “More for me,” he said. “I got a bit of catching up to do.”

  Missy had dodged wine all night, without anyone noticing, a miracle in our small group, and had now managed to refuse the alcohol-soaked ice cream. Usually CeeCee would sniff out a secret within minutes with her so-called second sight. There was nothing like a newcomer to distract everyone.

  As full as I was, the ice cream before me looked so creamy, and fresh with the verdant lime, there was no way I wasn’t going to consume it in three bites. I made the mistake of glancing at Ridge. And there he was. Holding onto the popsicle and licking it. With his tongue. His perfectly pink tongue. Until that moment I had never realized how a tongue could be so...sexy. Heat flooded me as I watched him enjoy the popsicle. The thoughts that swam through my mind were somewhat risqué, for me.

  “Sarah?” Missy said.

  My head felt leaden as I dragged my gaze to Missy. “Mmm?”

  She lifted a hand to her jaw and mimed closing her mouth. Oh right. My jaw had dropped open somewhat dramatically. I took a deep breath and picked up my popsicle. Focus on the food. Just the food. The flavors were fresh as a summer’s day, but all I could think was...Ridge. Ridge and that no-good tongue of his.

  Tingling, I felt Ridge peering at me. Did he see me staring at him like a fool?

  “You have a little bit...” he leaned close “...here.” He traced my bottom lip with the tip of his finger. And then promptly put it in his mouth. “Tasty,” he whispered, winking.

  Speechless, I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. And then dropped my hands to my lap. Everyone else was seemingly preoccupied talking about their weekend plans, but I was lost in a bubble. The only thing I could hear or see was Ridge; everything else felt like white noise.

  He clasped my hand under the table, rubbing his finger along mine.

  Oh, boy.

  There was no way I could fall for a fancy-pants reporter from an enormous city, was there?

  * * *

  “A DATE, TOMORROW?” Missy said, letting out a squeal of glee.

  Ridge had said his goodbyes after dinner like a true gentleman, giving us all a peck on the cheek. We girls had retired to the front porch, soaking up the moonlight, and pondering life’s great mysteries. Damon and Tommy had skedaddled to watch Friday-night football.

  “A picnic,” I said, and filled them in on what Ridge had proposed. I’d only just managed to get my equilibrium back. Sitting so close to Ridge and all the gamut of emotions had sapped me.

  “Well, I can’t see why you wouldn’t,” Missy said. “He passed our inquisition with flying colors. I don’t think anyone’s ever scored so high on the friend test before.”

  CeeCee said, “Damon came pretty close with Lil, and look how that’s turned out. That Ridge, he’s a keeper, all right.”

  “Oh, girls, please, you forget he’s a journalist,” I said, finally finding my real voice, and not the husky, half-dazed sound I used when Ridge was next to me. “He knows how to grill people under the spotlight—you don’t think that translates into him knowing how to act when the situation is reversed?” Once Ridge wasn’t around, the smidgen of doubt crept back up and tapped me on the shoulder.

  CeeCee shook her head. “Ain’t no one can pass our test, unless they genuine. It’s foolproof. I tell you somethin’—that boy in love with you. It’s as obvious as icing on a cake.”

  “Sarah, you should have seen the way he was looking at you.” Missy’s voice softened. “Like you were some kind of prize. I found it impossible not to watch him watching you.”

  “He’s smart, and funny, and considerate. Not to mention extremely good-looking. You could do worse.” Lil stopped swinging on the love seat and jumped up. “Let’s toast to new beginnings.”

  I wondered just how often they’d discussed my singledom. The way they were acting you’d think I was about to marry the guy, not go on a harmless picnic.

  “Wait.” CeeCee held up a hand. “Missy hasn’t got a drink. Go on in, Lil, and get her a glass so she can toast, too.”

  Missy
grinned at me and shrugged. It was inevitable they’d find out.

  “Hang on, Lil,” Missy said. “I don’t need a glass. I’ll toast with my water.”

  Lil stopped abruptly and surveyed Missy. “Wait a minute, you’re the one who toasts something as simple as the sun coming up, and you’re not—”

  CeeCee cut her off. “She’s pregnant!”

  Missy nodded, and was swept into CeeCee’s arms. Lil embraced them both in a group hug.

  Once everyone settled back on their chairs, the girls plied Missy with questions.

  I watched them talk animatedly, and thought there must be nothing as special in the world as having friends like these. And I giggled to myself, because they’d forgotten all about my date with Ridge, leaving me time to think about what it all meant, and how I really felt.

  The girls’ chatter fell away, and suddenly all eyes were on me.

  “Don’t think you gettin’ away with not tellin’ us everythin’,” CeeCee said, using her particular brand of stare-down tactic.

  Hand on chest, I said, “Who—me?”

  “Let’s hear it, honey,” Missy said. “I need my beauty sleep, and I want to know all the details before I go.”

  Their gazes bored into me, and I knew they wanted me to be open to the idea of love. I’d put up so many barriers, and made so many excuses, but they could see through them.

  “When I close up tomorrow, he’ll be there to whisk me away to the woods, so let’s hope this is more of a romance and not a horror story, don’t you think?”

  Lil laughed, and said, “Maybe it’s more of an erotic story—you ever think of that?”

  I blushed to the roots of my hair. “If I had a cushion I would lob it at you now.”

  She giggled. “And that’s exactly how I know it’s crossed your mind. When you become Sarah shot-putter.”

  “You know me so well...” Our words floated off into the moonlit night, like stars.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN I ARRIVED at the bookshop the next morning, it was blanketed in darkness. Predawn there was a bite to the air. I peeked through the window as I always did to try and catch the books fluttering about.

  In the shadows the shop looked asleep, no movement, no color. It was a beautiful sight, made even more perfect by the fact the books were mostly secondhand and had that loved feel about them. Hardbacks with brown leather covers looked like austere grandparents perched alongside a pile of colorful paperback chick-lit books.

  I opened the door, and let the musty scent of the shop wash over me. Old book scent, it should be bottled. Treading quietly, I scanned the shop to see if there’d been any changes since I’d left the day before.

  A thin dog-eared novel hung slightly over the edge of one of the shelves, as if it wanted to be found and read again. As if it needed more love after a lifetime of its pages being turned and bent by the pads of so many fingers.

  Most booksellers frowned upon dog-earing a book, but that was how you knew it was special. It had lived, and been reincarnated again with another owner; there were notes on the margins, and words highlighted. With a book like that, when you gently pried open the cover you could hear whispers from the past float out from the pages.

  I took the little book that craved another reader and popped it in the front bay window, to read once I’d made some coffee.

  Shuffling through to the kitchen, I switched on the kettle. A steaming cup of coffee and a few chapters would do just fine until the sun rose. Quiet time, when the streets were deserted, and the birds still slumbered, was like a panacea for me. Time to revel in reading and fire up my blood with caffeine before I became bookseller Sarah, and not so much whimsical Sarah.

  The kettle whistled for attention, so I filled up the coffeepot and wandered to the front of the shop and set myself up in the bay window. Sipping my coffee, I rested against old pillows, and had just opened my book when a movement out of the corner of my eye startled me.

  Shrugging down so I couldn’t be seen, I glanced out of the window. Holy moly. It was him. The sexy reporter. What was he doing...running? His athletic frame whizzed by one side of the street and back down the other. Was something chasing him, or was he doing that for fun? Earplugs sat inside his ears; he certainly looked decked out for exercise: shorty shorts, tank top, and sneakers. His man bulges pumped on opposite sides to his stride, and when I say man bulges, I mean those mammoth biceps of his. They were like footballs, they were so big. Okay, maybe not that big, but they were rounded and much more sticky-outy when not covered up.

  He was out of sight, having crossed the street and moved past the Gingerbread Café. I went back to my book, only managing a few words as the need to glance out of the window distracted me. Where was he? By now he should have turned and been headed past the bookshop again.

  I leaned closer to the window, and looked to the right. Footsteps pounded against pavement, so I shrank back covering my face with the book.

  After a beat, I peeked above the book, gazing at his retreating frame. Who knew calves could be so appealing? Spellbound, I watched him until he was out of sight.

  A fine sheen of sweat had broken on my upper lip. Exercising was hard. I was waiting for him to appear across the street, when he stood in front of the window, surprising me. I let out a yowl of fright. “You scared me!”

  He stood with his hands on his hips. “I saw you watching me.”

  I scoffed, and held up the book in front of my face. “I was reading, I had no idea you were there.”

  He cocked his head, and grinned. “I could see your reflection in the windows across the road. Your face was pressed firmly up against the glass as I ran past. Were you checking out my butt?”

  “Oh please. As if! Hardly. I am not that kind of person,” I lied.

  He wiped his brow, and said, “That sounded very defensive, and usually defensive means guilty.”

  “Oh that was you running past just before? I see! Okay, that makes sense, I actually thought you were some kind of burglar. A robber even. A crook. A shys—”

  He cut me off. “Liar.”

  I feigned disbelief. “We are extremely community minded in Ashford, and when we happen across someone running at six in the morning we immediately look for either an army of angry spiders chasing the person, or if that person is carrying a duffel bag with Aunt Pam’s best silver. It’s just a neighborhood watch thing.”

  “Neighborhood watch? Is that what you call it?”

  I nodded slowly, in a way I hoped made me seem very believable. Trustworthy. “Yes.”

  He laughed. I couldn’t help notice his particular man-sweat did smell a little like the books described—I’d thought that was a myth. An earthy, lemony scent, punctuated by the laundry fragrance that still hung on his clothes. Oh, boy.

  “Only six hours to go,” he said, fingering the buds of his earphones.

  “What, until you’re finished running? Wow, you New Yorkers really commit when you commit.”

  He flashed a smile. White teeth, God love ’em. “Funny. Six hours, until I whisk you away, and let you decide what kind of story it is, right?”

  Oh, my God. “What?” I sputtered.

  He grinned. “Horror, romance...erotica.”

  My mind reeled. How did he know that?

  “CeeCee’s Facebook,” he said.

  She had embraced technology and run with it. I cleared my throat. “I’m sure the post you’re referring to is actually about books.”

  “I can read between the lines. I’m a reporter, remember.”

  Note to self: tell CeeCee to make her Facebook posts a lot more ambiguous. “Sometimes you may just read too much into things, you think? You know, looking for a story when there isn’t one there?” I crossed my arms across my chest and pursed my lips for good measure.

  “You look adorable when you do that pose.”


  A smile twitched at the corners of my mouth, but I controlled it as much as I could without making my nostrils flare. “Adorable?”

  “Adorable.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Five hours and fifty-five minutes.”

  * * *

  THE MORNING WAS HECTIC, which didn’t leave much time to think about the impending picnic with Ridge—a good thing. The less time I had to worry about the fact he wasn’t the right man for me, the better.

  I was packing a huge order when Missy strutted in. “Need help?” She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  “There will be no book heaving from you, Missy.”

  “That sure is a big stack of books. Are they for Tomlinson?” She giggled.

  Tomlinson was one of my best customers. We didn’t know anything about him, really, except that he went by the moniker Tomlinson and his tastes for literature were mainly erotic. I scoured the globe looking for first editions of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller novels, plus a wealth of other erotic literature that would make even the more sexually liberated person blush. But, hey, reading was reading in my book.

  “Sure is. I found a very early Kama Sutra translated into French. I think he’ll like that, don’t you?”

  Missy sighed. “I guess so. Do you ever wonder about him? Like why he collects only erotica?”

  I shrugged, and blew my bangs out of my eyes. “Maybe he’s writing a thesis or something? Maybe it’s a lifetime investigation into what makes people tick in the bedroom. Who knows?”

  “Could be. We live in a funny old world.”

  I had lots of customers like Tomlinson. People who collected certain genres, or hard-to-find books. No matter what their proclivities, I respected them because they respected books. They prized them. And these clients always intrigued me. Since I mailed the books, and they paid online, I never got to meet them. But that didn’t stop me imagining where they lived, or what they did with the books. Were they on display? Did they arrange them in alphabetical order? Or size order? Color order?