Chapter Four
‘What’s your question?’ I ask, swallowing to try to clear the lump of bagel that’s lodged in my throat.
Yumi’s head spins towards me and I’m pretty sure she’s glaring at me for not taking an actual five minutes, but I can’t think about that right now.
Then her attention turns fully to Declan, and I hear her gasp quietly as she realises who exactly has just stepped into the store and what exactly is happening.
I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t imagined seeing Declan again.
Looking down my nose at him and telling him that I don’t know whether his book is better because I’ve been too busy to read it, but that it’s nice that he tried.
In most imaginings I am full of poise and class; sometimes I ride a silver stallion off into the sunset.
In none of my fantasies am I choking on a bagel.
Up close, he looks unfairly put-together, even with the ridiculous cap. His shoulders fill out his black T-shirt and his blue jeans hang casually from his lean frame. He looks exactly the kind of relaxed handsome that wouldn’t be out of place on a magazine cover.
‘My question is fairly simple, really,’ he says, his eyes sharpening as he watches me take him in. His tone is mild, but there’s a current running beneath it and his face is still when I step up to the counter. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Green eyes catch mine and I hear my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
It was him, yesterday morning. It was him, and he didn’t say anything – why? And why is he here again now?
The person standing in front of me is not quite the measured, slightly mocking man I remember from eighteen months ago. And all I can think about is the stupid line from Elizabeth Mackie’s stupid article: Declan paused when the bookshop was mentioned.
‘I’m running a bookshop,’ I tell him, hating the feeling of guilt that creeps up my throat, hating that I’m the one who is on the back foot here.
‘Running a bookshop?’ says Declan, raising one eyebrow.
At least, I think he raises an eyebrow. It’s difficult to tell.
Until he leans in closer. And now I can not only see his eyebrow but I can smell his skin – a mix of soap and something else, something that I suspect is just him .
It’s more information than I want to have about this man, and my cheeks heat again.
‘Selling information about me is how you run a bookshop?’
‘We’re selling books,’ I say, as glibly as I can. Like I can’t feel the warmth of his body, inches from mine. ‘You just happen to come up in conversation.’
Declan’s jaw pulses. ‘Who gave you permission to talk about my personal life?’
And that’s when I snap. Because, honestly, he is the one who started this .
‘You did,’ I hiss. ‘When you dedicated your freaking book to me.’
Declan’s gaze is hot on mine, and there’s a part of me that wants to spit fire at him and another part of me that wants to check my hair and I hate the fact that he makes me feel so unbalanced.
‘I didn’t—’ he begins, but before he can finish whatever weak retort he’s cooking up, Yumi clears her throat.
‘Uhhh . . . guys,’ she says. ‘I don’t mean to break up . . . whatever this is . . .’ She gestures between the two of us. ‘But you might consider keeping your voices down. Or, you know, taking this elsewhere.’
I look up to see a fresh wave of people in the bookshop. Some are pretending to browse, but one has their phone out and is very clearly trying to get a picture of the encounter. Even Dave the delivery-turned-security guy is leaning in closer to listen.
Declan’s whole body seems to tense and, for a second, I think he’s going to yell whatever he was going to anyway, consequences be damned. But then he straightens, the anger melting out of him from one second to the next. And, somehow, I’m even madder at him for that.
‘Of course,’ he says, his voice soft and – dare I say – charming . He turns to me. ‘Clarence, would you like to go for a cup of coffee with me?’
There’s something about his tone and the sight of him that makes me want to scream No, never, I will never go anywhere with you, you butt brain , because apparently, my insults get worse when I’m mad.
But I am a grown-up. And despite my personal feelings about this man, he is an author and I am a bookshop owner. Maybe we can both be professional enough to put this behind us. But . . . that’s not what I say.
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
Declan watches me for a moment, as though he knows I’m lying through my teeth.
‘Tea, then?’ he clips.
‘Tea is fine,’ I say, and I feel stupidly proud, like I have somehow won.
‘Excellent,’ says Declan. A curl has come loose from under his cap, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. His eyes are steady and reasonable on mine, and I want to tuck the curl back in and even the thought of doing it makes me mad again.
‘Are you okay on your own for a bit?’ I ask Yumi.
She grins unnervingly widely back at me.
‘Take your time,’ she says. ‘I’ve got plenty to do here. And if things slow down too much, I’ve always got some good reading material.’ She plucks a copy of Talking to Trees from under the counter and waves it at me and when did she even get that?
Declan coughs, but I refuse to look at him.
‘Bring me back a brownie!’ calls Yumi as the bell above the door jingles.
Declan’s legs are longer than mine, so I’m doing a step and a half for every one of his. By unspoken agreement we’re walking about a metre away from each other.
‘There’s a deli called the Garden on the next block,’ I say in a professional, polite tone, my voice slightly raised to cover the distance between us.
‘I know,’ says Declan. He tucks his hands into his pockets, and the silence between us gets bigger.
‘They do really good brownies,’ I add, like I need to explain Yumi’s comment. It also feels important to be more local than him somehow.
‘Okay,’ says Declan, infuriatingly calm. I’m desperate to ask whether he’s had the brownies or not before, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Thankfully, the deli is less than a two-minute walk away. I breathe out a small sigh of relief when we arrive.
The Garden is cosy and relaxed. It’s a place that’s always buzzing with warmth, and it’s one of my favourite cafés in the city and now I have to sit at a table and make conversation with/be yelled at by Declan Archer and this is a really bad idea .
The thought makes me stop in the middle of the doorway, which turns out to be a bad idea, because Declan’s chest bumps into my back and he automatically reaches out to steady me. His fingers are hot against my shoulders, and a spike of heat rushes to my chest.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, his voice warm and too close. I jump away like I’ve been stung, and when I look back it’s to see him watching me from under his cap, his eyebrow definitely raised this time.
‘Fine,’ I say, even though I am absolutely not. ‘I’m fine.’
I can feel the weight of his presence behind me as I wind my way through the happy, bustling deli to a four-seater table in the back corner.
I sit in the first seat I come to, slipping my shop keys out of my pocket and putting them on the table so I don’t end up with a key-shaped indent in my bottom.
Declan looks fleetingly at the seat next to me, but then sighs and sits down on the opposite side, facing the room.
He hesitates for a second before sliding his cap off. As though he doesn’t want to, but can’t bear the bad manners of wearing a hat indoors.
He runs a hand through his messy black curls, and when his eyes meet mine the green is so piercing that it feels sharp in my stomach. I clear my throat and focus instead on the faint mark on his head from his cap.
I’ve met this man once. I can literally count on two hands the number of sentences we’ve spoken to each other – or, at least, that I’ve spoken to him – and while the dedication burns through normal etiquette, it also puts me off balance. I’ve never had a book dedicated to me before.
I can still feel his eyes on me when a waitress arrives beside the table with a friendly smile and a notepad.
‘What can I get you both?’ she asks.
‘A brownie, please. And a coff— tea,’ I say, realising my error when Declan’s gaze cuts to me. ‘I would really love a tea.’
The words are like dirt in my mouth, and I am cursing the petty version of myself that thought it was a good idea to tell Declan Archer that I don’t drink coffee.
Declan glances down at the menu, and for a moment he’s not the outraged Declan, or the stiff, formal Declan. He’s the man who first came to the bookshop – the too-handsome, too-bright author who I may have been too rude to. The man who chose to write that dedication , I remind myself.
His gaze flicks to me for a moment, and the corner of his mouth hitches almost imperceptibly.
‘I’d kill for a coffee,’ he says, turning to smile at the waitress.
A full, proper smile that feels a little like lightning.
‘The coffee here is amazing,’ he tells me, his eyes laughing, and he one hundred per cent knows that I know it’s amazing.
‘That’s lovely,’ I say, like I’m not gritting my teeth.
‘Isn’t it?’ says Declan.
The waitress leaves, and Declan runs a hand through his hair again. He meets my eyes and the smile falls from his face. As though he’d briefly forgotten why we were here.
‘Look, I don’t know what your intention was, alerting the media—’ he finally begins.
‘I didn’t alert the media,’ I say, before he can finish his sentence.
Declan sighs and rubs his head like he’s already exhausted with the whole thing. ‘There’s no point in lying to me,’ he says. ‘It’s done now.’
I clench my jaw at how dismissive he is. He’s clearly already decided on his version of what happened.
‘Why would I invite a crowd of people into my shop?’ I ask.
Declan raises an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’
‘Fine, but then why would I wait this long to do it?’ I ask.
‘Momentum for the book has been building,’ says Declan, and it’s an arrogant thing to say but there’s something off about the way he says it – almost like he doesn’t really want to be mentioning it. ‘Maybe it’s only just now that it’s become worth your while.’
The waitress reappears and slides our order onto the table, and I manage to murmur a thank you.
Declan lifts his coffee cup and takes a sip, his green eyes sharp on mine.
I want to reach across the table and snatch it from him, to wipe the smug look off his face.
I didn’t ask for any of this. I can’t pretend I wasn’t rude, but the dedication and anything that came after it? That’s on him.
‘I don’t care what you believe,’ I tell him. ‘If you came here to yell at me, go ahead, get it over with and let me get back to my life.’ I don’t take a sip of my tea.
Declan huffs out a laugh. He closes his eyes.
‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’