Chapter 12 Sam
SAM
I end up in the library long after the party ends.
It’s late, and I know I should be back at my cottage by now, but the glow of the lamp drew me to the library, and now I’m sitting on a plush couch with my feet resting on an ottoman while I thumb through a very old copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
I’m not reading the book so much as appreciating the craftsmanship of the copy.
The pages are soft from years of readers, and it smells like the past. It’s a book my dad would have kept locked in a cabinet, waiting for the right collector to come searching.
But here, the book is available to anyone who ventures into the library.
I’m admiring some page art when I hear soft steps and look up to see a woman slip through the door.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Her voice is as soft as the lichen that grows on the trees around here. Tempting in the forest, straight-up dangerous in this dimly-lit setting.
“Too fired up to sleep.”
I put the book down on my lap and watch as she settles in the equally plush armchair across from me.
She’s wearing flannel pyjama pants and a rugby jersey.
My old team’s jersey, to be exact. Her hair is hanging in loose waves around her face, and somehow she looks just as beautiful in the oversized, mismatched pyjamas and no makeup as she had earlier in the evening in that dress that hugged her body perfectly.
Both versions have me wanting to throw her over my shoulder and run off into the wilds.
At this point I’m shocked I can get full sentences out with my brain going full caveman at every opportunity.
“Whatcha reading?” she asks, leaning forward and squinting when I hold the book up. “Are you a classics man?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “I’ll read anything.”
“Oh yeah?” There’s a challenge in her voice, and I tilt my head, waiting to see what it is. “Even romance?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
She scoffs, pulling her legs under her. “Name one you’ve read.”
I cannot wait to see her face. “From Away,” I say, only to be met with a furrowed brow. “It’s Canadian. East coast comfort. Heavy and yet somehow light.”
“I’ve never heard of it. Did you like it?”
I nod.
“Pitch it to me. Maybe I’ll try it when I get home.”
It takes a minute to recall because it has been a few months since I read it, but I manage to do a decent job with my pitch without giving too much away.
“I love a book with an out-of-towner. Reminds me of all the possibilities of new beginnings, even if it takes a bit of work.”
“What about you? What are you reading?” I nearly end my question by calling her Rosie, but I’m able to stop myself.
“Emma,” she says, flipping the book up for me to see. I’ve seen the edition in my own store, a popular pick for people who don’t care about aesthetics. “I’ve read Pride and Prejudice at least twenty times, but I’ve never read anything else by her.”
“Twenty times?” I ask, my eyebrows lifting into my hairline.
“At least,” she confirms. “Have you never read a book twenty times?”
I shake my head. “Max three.”
She rests her elbow on the arm of the chair and settles her head in her hand. “Which book have you read three times?”
“Animal Farm.”
“I’ve never read anything by Orwell. Would you recommend it?”
I chuckle. “I would. It’s short, certainly shorter than Emma. And you can’t go wrong with talking animals.”
Her soft laugh sends pleasant chills racing across my skin. “Maggi would definitely agree with you.”
The mention of her daughter brings back the memory of this evening during the rehearsal. “How’s she feeling about her walk tomorrow? Is she going to speed walk her way down?”
Blythe’s smile is radiant before she bites her lower lip, a movement that doesn’t help me avoid staring at her mouth.
“You know, I knew that was going to happen. The planner told her to walk slowly, and you simply cannot tell a five-year-old to walk slowly and expect them to not move at a glacial pace.”
“It was feeling a bit too stuffy until she came down. She loosened everyone up.”
Blythe hums, her smile softer now. “She has a way of doing that. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a kid, so she can be a lot, but…she’s the perfect amount of a lot.”
The clock at the end of the room chimes softly, and I realize I should get to bed. If I was alone I’d have no problem standing and walking out. But with Blythe sitting here, my motivation to move has dried up.
She makes the decision for both of us, though, when she stands, fidgeting with the hem of the jersey. “I should get to bed. Maggi will be up with the sun, and I have a feeling tomorrow is going to feel twice as long as my own wedding day.”
“Sweet dreams,” I murmur as she turns and walks to the door, my breath catching when I catch sight of her back.
A seven sits in the center of the jersey, Keefer emblazoned across her shoulders.
The next morning, I’m sitting in a barber’s chair with a hot towel draped across my face. Colin insisted that we spend the morning getting pampered, which works for me after barely sleeping.
I tried, but I ended up lying there awake for hours replaying Blythe walking away from me in my fucking jersey.
An ex wore one to try and seduce me once and it did nothing for me.
I peeled it off her body so fast she thought it worked.
In reality, I really didn’t want to look at it.
In my mind it was no different than someone wearing a FedEx uniform as a form of seduction for their FedEx employee partner.
That’s why I can’t seem to stop picturing Blythe.
She wasn’t trying to seduce me, but holy shit did I like seeing her in my jersey.
Maybe it was the fact she didn’t seem to have a clue who Keefer is.
Chances are that jersey belonged to her husband, and that alone should make me feel weird about being turned on.
“You’re quiet?” Colin observes from the chair next to me.
“I’m relaxing,” I mumble.
Stories and inside jokes fly around the room in between the sound of clippers and straight razors on skin, and still I remain quieter than usual, distracted by inappropriate, never-going-to-happen daydreams. Inappropriate because Blythe isn’t my anything.
Never going to happen because I don’t hook up at weddings, and I certainly don’t get involved with single mothers, there’s a whole other level of complication there.
Once we’re all trimmed and steamed, we head to a pub down the street, passing a quaint bookstore that looks straight out of a book lover's fantasy on the way. Hell, I reluctantly own a bookstore, and even I’m drawn to it.
“I’m going to duck in here quickly,” I tell Pierre, who looks at me like I’ve got three heads.
The soft tinkle of bells above the door has an older woman’s head popping around the side of an old armchair set next to a fireplace that has been turned into a bookshelf.
Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a soft “Oh” as she stands slowly. I’m going to guess she’s not used to seeing customers that look like me walk in.
“Samuel Keefer,” she says, her brogue thicker than I’ve heard in a while.
“Friend or foe?” I ask cautiously.
“Oh, I’m as good a friend as you’re going to find, lad.” She cackles, approaching me with her hand outstretched. “Myra MacCregor. Myra to my friends.” She shakes my hand with a grip that would hurt if I were a little bit smaller.
“Sam,” I say, not bothering to give my entire name seeing as that’s how she greeted me. “This is quite the store you’ve got, Myra,” I praise, looking around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves along old stone walls.
There’s a mix of used and new books in here, sharing a space in a way you don’t usually see. To the right there is a Scottish author section overflowing with well-loved classics and shiny new printings.
“Are ye looking for something in particular?” Myra asks, moving to stand beside me while I continue to look around.
“Um,” I begin. Am I? I don’t make it a habit of going into bookstores when I’m abroad. I get enough bookstore time at home. “Animal Farm?” I say almost unconsciously.
“Excellent book,” she quips, walking toward the back of the store. “I’ve got a few editions.” She waves for me to follow and leads me to a case where several classics sit behind glass.
“I’ll take them all,” I blurt out, again without actually thinking.
“Really?” Myra looks up at me in the same way Pierre had. “You don’t even know the cost.”
I look from Myra to the books and shrug. Usually I’m more frugal. I made good money playing rugby, but I’m not playing anymore, and appearance fees and merch royalties only make so much. And still, I don’t even bat an eye when I inform Myra that I’ll take every edition she has of my favourite book.
“Every edition?” She looks me up and down. “Even the one with the pink spine? That’s five hundred pounds.”
I nod while doing some quick mental math. I’m about to drop over eight hundred dollars on a book. I’ve lost my damn mind. I have the money. But it’s a book, and I haven’t quite figured out what has possessed me to do this.
“Do you have any copies of Pride and Prejudice?” I ask, looking over at the other cabinets.
Myra stares at me for a few minutes and I wait patiently, expecting her to tell me I’ve lost it, but eventually she nods and leads me to a cabinet three down from the one containing Animal Farm.
“Fewer copies of Pride, but maybe that’s better?”
In the case are three copies. “I’ll take those too,” I inform her and then hold my breath, waiting for her to tell me that one of them is some rare edition worth half a million dollars or something. “I’ll take that copy of Emma as well,” I add, thankful there’s only one in the case.
“You trying to impress a woman?”
Am I? “No,” I say, pretty sure it’s a lie.
Her eyes narrow further. “A man?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Nope.”
Ten minutes and two thousand dollars later, I’m cradling a paper bag full of rare editions while I walk into a pub, prepared to receive an earful from the groom, who certainly didn’t expect his best man to run off to buy books.