Book People

Chapter Nineteen

I am fine. Nothing is wrong. I just didn’t sleep well last night.

C

KATE

I lie naked on Sebastian’s bed with my chin on my folded hands, watching him. We’ve just talked about what we need to do to get stock of Colours in for Lisa’s book-signing and then discussed including Portable Magic as a venue for some of the festival events, and now I’m helping him set up Blackwood Books’ first newsletter.

He’s sitting beside me – also naked – apart from the absurd little glasses he wears on the end of his nose. It’s quite the dichotomy, the glasses in contrast with his magnificent body.

And he is magnificent.

Really, the village doesn’t know the half of what lies beneath this man’s clothes and it’s a damn shame they don’t. There should be a naked statue of him outside the bookshop so everyone can see and worship him.

Then again, I’m not sure I want them to. I want the sheer beauty of him to remain my little secret. The thing that only I know. And there are many things that only I know.

The growl he makes when I take him in my mouth.

The way his eyes glow fiercely when he thrusts inside me.

The sound of my name when he comes.

The women in the village don’t know what they’re missing out on and I’m glad. Because that makes him mine. All mine.

‘Stop distracting me,’ he says, without looking up from the laptop screen.

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘How am I distracting you?’

That earns me a flash of intense blue as he glances at me. ‘You exist, Miss Jones.’ And smiles.

My heart turns over in my chest.

That’s another thing the village doesn’t know. What he looks like when he’s naked and smiling, and desire is in his eyes.

Only I know that.

He glances back at his screen, taps a few more times, then pauses. Frowns slightly. ‘I’m not sure what to say.’

I lean over him to peer at the screen. He’s got a very formal introductory sentence, but that’s it. ‘Hmm. My newsletter is chatty, but I don’t think that’s your vibe.’

‘Really? What makes you say that?’ His tone is dry as dust.

I love it when he teases me. When you first see Sebastian Blackwood, you’d think that a man that uptight couldn’t possibly have a sense of humour. But he does. Just as underneath his cool reserve there’s a volcano.

Another secret I get to keep.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, grinning. ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with your complete inability to do small talk.’

There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘Small talk is overrated. Especially when there are other things we can do instead.’

‘Settle down, Casanova. Your vibe is informational and intellectual. So, no, not chatty. You should have your new releases in various subjects, plus reviews, and I think you should have a regular column where you discuss what you’re reading.’

He nods and types some more, then pauses again. ‘What would you say to writing a paragraph or two for me. Include some of your new releases that you think might have some appeal to my readers.’

A little shiver of delight runs through me that he’s thought of me. ‘I would love to,’ I say. ‘You can write one for me too.’

‘Excellent plan.’ He types a little bit more.

‘Don’t forget to do something about important dates. You know, advertising upcoming events.’

‘What upcoming events?’

I elbow him. ‘The festival, duh.’

He gives me the most charming boyish grin. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve almost forgotten about that.’

‘You have not.’

‘Nearly.’

‘Lies.’

His eyes gleam yet again and my breath catches. His attention span is limited this morning, clearly. ‘You haven’t finished,’ I say. ‘You need to talk about the chess evening you’re going to start running. And the poetry night. Not to mention the mainstream fiction book club.’ I glance at his screen. ‘Actually, start with the book club and see how much interest you get.’

He shuts the laptop with a snap, takes off his glasses, and turns to me, gripping my hips and hauling me up so I’m lying on top of him.

‘You have the attention span of a goldfish,’ I inform him.

‘How am I expected to concentrate on anything when you’re naked beside me?’ he says plaintively. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question.’ His hands stroke down my back, an idle, absent touch that is somehow even more erotic for being so. ‘We’re going to have to tell Lisa we solved the mystery of who my great-grandfather was writing to.’

I relax onto him. He makes a fine bed, his body hard and smooth and hot, like sun-warmed stone. ‘We will. And I think she’s going to find it even more romantic that Sebastian Blackwood the First was writing to Kathryn Jones the First. And slipping notes into books, no less. And now we’re . . . well, we’re kind of together, aren’t we?’

I feel a ripple of tension go through him. We haven’t talked about this yet, about where we go from here and what last night and this morning mean.

Last night it was all about physical demand, but he told me that he wanted ‘maybe more’.

Well, it’s morning now and I suppose we need to talk about what ‘maybe more’ constitutes.

Part of me is reluctant, because the atmosphere between us has been so easy, so sexy and tender. He woke me with a kiss, his hands stroking me, and then that turned into slow, sleepy, sensual sex.

Now, I don’t want to disturb anything or rock the boat, but . . .

We do need to talk about it.

He lifts his hands and pushes my hair back from my face, his gaze shadowed. ‘We’re not together, Kate,’ he says. ‘We slept together and that’s not the same thing.’

I appreciate his honesty, even as something twists in my chest. ‘Then perhaps you’d better be clear about what exactly “maybe more” means.’

He lets out a breath, his gaze searching my face. ‘Maybe more means maybe more sex. That’s all.’

‘I thought you said it would never be “just sex” between us?’ I know I wasn’t going to do anything to rock the boat, but I can’t help myself. I’d like this thing between us to be about more than just sex, but I’m not clear on how much more I want either.

I didn’t want another relationship; I knew that much when I came to Wychtree. In fact, I’d sworn off men for good. But then Sebastian appeared and threw a spanner in the works, and now everything feels uncertain.

I don’t like uncertainty. I grew up with too much of it, moving from flat to flat around London, depending on how much money my mother had at the time. Then Jasper and the constant state of emotional uncertainty he kept me in.

So when I moved to Wychtree, I told myself that this was where I’d put down roots, make myself a home.

That did not include falling for a man who definitely does not want a relationship and yet is frustratingly unclear about what he does want.

And, yes, I probably am falling for him.

I felt it last night when he held me against the bookshelves. When he pushed inside me and his eyes went electric blue. When I thought to myself that I never wanted this to end. I wanted him to look at me like that for ever.

I’m an idiot.

A complete fucking idiot.

‘That’s true,’ he says at last. ‘And it wasn’t just sex.’

‘Can’t we try this?’ I make an attempt to not sound quite so desperate. ‘It doesn’t have to be a relationship per se. We could just be . . . I don’t know . . . “friends with benefits” or something?’

He smiles at this and the tension in me releases. It’s a warm, natural, genuinely amused smile. ‘Friends with benefits,’ he echoes. ‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’

‘Try to sound less like you’re eighty years old.’ I elbow him again. ‘Actually, what we have is more like a “situationship”.’

‘That’s even more ridiculous.’

He grips my hips and rolls over, pinning me beneath him, which I suspect is his favourite position. He’s a bossy lover, but I like that, because he’s also a hungry one, and that means I get to be bossy as well. He allows me anything as long as I touch him.

‘Casual, then.’ He threads his fingers through mine and lifts my hands over my head. ‘A casual relationship. No-strings sex.’

I like the idea of that. Casual. No strings. No emotional attachments.

My heart protests, but I tell that bitch to shut up. She knows nothing. She thought Jasper was a catch and look how that turned out.

‘Fine,’ I say, gasping a little as he settles between my thighs, his hard-on pressing against me and sending the most exquisite bolt of pleasure through me. ‘I can do that.’

‘What did he do to you?’

The question sounds so easy and natural that, for a moment, I don’t quite know what he’s talking about. Yet there is nothing easy or natural about the intent way he’s staring at me.

Jasper. He wants to know about Jasper. Because, yesterday, in the heat of the moment, when I was so upset about my great-grandmother, I inadvertently let slip something I shouldn’t.

My stomach hollows. I haven’t talked to anyone about him, not since I left. Mum didn’t think much of him, but I loved him. Or, at least, I thought I loved him. And I thought he loved me. I thought that all the little slights and criticisms and gaslighting lies he told me were genuine. I thought they were him being honest and I knew that honesty was important in a relationship. Putting the work into a relationship was also important and you put the work in when someone matters to you.

I just didn’t see that I was the only one being honest, just as I didn’t notice that I was the only one who put the work into our relationship.

It’s embarrassing, and I don’t want to talk to Sebastian about it. Jasper only used words to hurt me. He didn’t hit me, he never raised his hand against me even once. I had no bruises, no marks on my body, and while I had scars, they weren’t physical ones. Not like what some women have to deal with.

Not like Kate.

Smart women these days aren’t supposed to let guys treat them that way. We’re supposed to spot red flags. We’re supposed to know what a ‘good’ relationship looks like, so that we’re not complicit in our own abuse. But you know what they say about not seeing the wood for the trees? With Jasper it was all trees. That’s all I saw and I felt stupid that I didn’t see anything else.

I feel stupid even now.

‘Kate,’ Sebastian says softly, and I know I’ve been silent too long. Already this is becoming a bigger deal than it needs to be.

‘Oh, he wasn’t that bad,’ I say eventually, trying to keep it light. ‘He just used to say things that were a bit mean.’

‘What things?’

‘It’s nothing, Sebastian. Honestly.’

‘You don’t like talking about it?’

I let out a breath, annoyed that he’s pushing. ‘Not really. He wasn’t very nice in the end and let’s leave it at that.’

Sebastian’s blue gaze searches mine and he stays silent.

‘I know I said that about knowing what it was like to be with a man who hurt you,’ I say, because it’s clear he’s not going to let this go. ‘But Jasper never hit me or anything, okay? Not even once.’

Sebastian doesn’t move, his fingers warm and strong, laced through mine. ‘He did hurt you, though.’

It’s not a question and suddenly the embarrassment and shame that rushes through me is almost choking. ‘Do we have to talk about this?’

‘No,’ Sebastian says. ‘But if you want to talk about it, you can. You can trust me with anything.’

The words get lodged in my heart and they stay there, vibrating, like an arrow shot into a target. He’s not going to make me tell him. He’s not going to insist. But if I want to, he’s here, and I can trust him.

It’s been a long time since I trusted anyone. A very long time. And as soon as I think that, all the words start spilling out, as if they’ve only been waiting for this opportunity, waiting for him all this time.

‘Jasper was lovely initially,’ I begin. ‘He said all the right things, treated me like a queen, and then . . . after about six months, he’d compliment me but then follow it up with something I could do to make it “even better”. I didn’t mind that, I wanted to please him, but then those things turned into little criticisms about my appearance or my cooking or my job. It wasn’t anything that awful and he never got angry or raised his voice, but . . .’ I swallow, feeling a familiar acid sickness settle in my gut. The same sickness I felt whenever Jasper made those comments. ‘It was a constant stream of criticism and commentary, making me feel as if nothing I did was right. He wanted my attention all the time, but only suggested going out if I’d made plans with friends. He’d tell me how much he liked being with me and wouldn’t I rather spend time with him, that kind of thing.’

Sebastian’s attention is all on me yet he’s silent, leaving space for me to talk and I like that. It makes me brave.

‘He never said outright when he was angry with me,’ I continue. ‘He’d joke about it instead, and when I didn’t laugh or I’d call him out, he’d tell me I was being too sensitive. Of course, when I actually wanted to spend time with him, he’d tell me he was going out with “the lads”. And if I protested, he’d tell me to stop being clingy.’ I keep expecting the acid feeling inside me to get worse, but for some reason, it doesn’t. As if the pressure of Sebastian’s gaze drains it all away, taking the poison from it.

‘I never realised how he’d manipulated me or how narcissistic he was until he wanted me to come to some work dinner on the second anniversary of Mum’s death. I said I didn’t feel up to it, and he got angry. Told me that Mum had been dead two years and I needed to get over it. Then I realised he’d gone through my contacts in my phone and deleted all my friends’ numbers.’ I take a breath. ‘It took me four years to understand that he’d been steadily isolating me from my friends and making my entire life all about him. Stupid, huh?’

‘Stupid?’ Sebastian echoes mildly. ‘Is that what you’d tell another woman in the same position? That she was stupid?’

A flicker of anger goes through me. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Is that what you would tell your great-grandmother?’

The anger abruptly dies, leaving me feeling cold as I’m brought face to face with the similarities in the first Kate’s life and my own.

‘But Jasper didn’t hit me,’ I say again, as if saying it a lot makes it okay. ‘It’s different.’

‘He hurt you.’ Sebastian’s fingers tighten through mine. ‘And just because you can’t see the bruises doesn’t mean he didn’t. It doesn’t make those wounds hurt any less.’

I swallow yet again, the acid inside me draining away until it’s gone. Until there’s nothing left but the ferocious blue of Sebastian’s eyes, and only then do I see the fury in them. Fury for me.

‘You’re not stupid, Kate,’ he goes on. ‘And none of this is your fault. You went into the relationship in good faith and he betrayed you.’ His voice deepens and I hear the same fury echoing in it. ‘If he ever comes near you again, let me know, and I’ll kick him all the way back to London.’

He’s not joking, I can see it in his face. He means every word.

Intellectually, I know it’s not my fault. Intellectually, I know Jasper was the one to blame. Yet that’s the problem with abuse. It sits in your heart, hooks into your deepest fears about yourself and undermines you.

Right now, though, here in this bed, with Sebastian’s weight on me, his fingers laced through mine, and the full force of his conviction in his eyes, I feel some of my own shame leave me. I don’t need him to tell me these things, but I appreciate that he did. It’s a support I didn’t know I needed.

‘Thank you,’ I say huskily. ‘So . . .’ I swallow away the last of my hurt and anger. ‘Do you want to keep us a secret?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘From the village? I think it’s a little late for that.’

‘It doesn’t worry me. I don’t care about gossip. But I know you don’t like it.’

‘I don’t? Who told you that?’

I bite my lip, not wanting to give Aisling and what she told me about him away. ‘No one. I just assumed you don’t because you keep yourself so separate from everyone.’

He sighs. ‘Living in a village has its own . . . peculiarities. Your life isn’t your own, since everyone here knows all about it and has an opinion on it. And they’re not shy about telling you.’

‘Hey, I kind of guessed that. I’ve watched enough Hallmark movies to know.’

He smiles, once again causing my heart to leap about like a mad thing. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but life in a small village is not like a Hallmark movie.’

‘No. Because if it was, there would be a tall, dark, brooding stranger . . . oh . . . wait.’

He laughs and I feel like I’ve won the National Lottery, the sound of it raising delicious goosebumps over my skin. My God, it’s sexy. I need to call the US President, tell him that one of his weapons of mass destruction is in an English village, taking the form of an illegally hot bookseller.

‘I don’t like pity,’ Sebastian says after a moment. ‘After Mum died, that’s all I got. Pitying looks and lots of “poor boy” comments. Lots of “lucky you still have your father”. It was too much, especially when I didn’t actually end up having my father.’

I go very still. This is private and he’s a very private man, yet he’s giving me something, the way I gave him some of me. A little piece of himself, of his history. It’s precious and important, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.

‘Why not?’ I ask carefully. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He preferred the bottle to me. Just like my grandfather preferred the track. I used to find empty whisky bottles hidden amongst the books on the bookshelves.’

My heart stops dancing and stands there holding itself, aching for a little boy who lost his mother far too soon and his father along with her. ‘I’m so sorry, Sebastian,’ I say. ‘And this isn’t pity, just so you know. It’s sympathy.’

He searches my face for a long moment and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. ‘The problem with a village is that there were plenty of people who had opinions, and yet no one lifted a finger to help. They all viewed it as none of their business.’ He pauses. ‘By the time I was twelve years old, Dad was drunk every night. I had to make my own meals, do my own washing. Get myself to school . . .’ He stops. ‘I’m not complaining. It was what it was. But it’s very much a case of your business is our business until it isn’t.’

Poor kid. He basically brought himself up. He must have felt so alone.

‘Mum was on her own,’ I say, wanting to share my experience, to let him know that I understand. ‘It was just me and her. She had to work a lot to keep the roof over our heads and I was left on my own much of the time. I had to learn to take care of myself because she wasn’t around to do it.’

For a moment our gazes lock and we stare at each other, a moment of complete understanding flowing between us.

‘The bookshop?’ I ask, knowing already the answer to the question, because he told me once before. That’s where he went to escape. To find companionship. To find the connections he wanted.

His mouth curls. ‘The library?’

I smile back.

We know, the two of us. We know.

It was books. Books saved us.

He bends his head and his mouth is on mine, and then he moves. And I’m not thinking about books any more.

Only him.