Chapter 3 #2
Showered and dressed, we headed into the city for a carb-loaded breakfast at a well-reviewed café I’d researched the week before. Book fairs required stamina and a clear head so I didn’t bankrupt myself. A full stomach was the best way to ensure both.
Nick watched with wry amusement as I devoured the last of the excellent sourdough toast that had accompanied my runny yolk fried eggs, crispy bacon, and grilled tomato. “You are so fucking adorable, you do know that, right?”
I shot him a puzzled look. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“This.” He waved a hand up and down in front of me. “I was beginning to think I knew you pretty well, and then you do this to me.”
I opened my hands. “Do what?”
He shot me a toothy grin that was more shark-like than I’d have preferred.
“This,” he repeated. “You. This super-excited, bouncing-in-his-seat fifty-five-going-on-twelve-year-old cutesy. It’s like taking a kid to breakfast before their first visit to Disneyland.
The air around you is crackling with adrenaline.
Or is that dopamine? I can’t remember which does what.
Either way, it’s an entirely new and positively enchanting side of you. ”
I blinked. “Are you on drugs?”
“Yes,” he quipped. “It’s called love. And I am totally and irrevocably addicted. No intervention required.”
He looked so serious, I couldn’t help but laugh. “You are way, way sappier than you’d have everyone think.” I poked him in the chest over his owl tattoo. “Heart of a marshmallow, I always knew it.”
Nick looked appalled. “Keep your voice down.”
I grinned. “I notice you didn’t deny it.”
He reached across the table and took my hand. “Never. When it comes to you, I’ll drip sap like a maple all day long.” He frowned at his own words. “Make that a very manly, strong but in-touch-with-his-feelings, new-age kind of maple.”
I snorted. “Good to know. Now, do you think you can shake your branches or shiver your leaves, or whatever it is you maples do, and get us out of here? I’m jonesing for the scent of aged paper and linen thread stitching.
And if I happen to find some original gilded edging to drool over, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.
You might have to bail me out for indecent exposure. ”
Nick gaped. “You are joking, right?”
I cocked a brow noncommittally. “You already know that we book collectors are passionate people.” I pushed my chair away from the table and got to my feet. “Remember the studio? That’s all I’m gonna say.” I shot him a wink and headed for the door.
Nick hurried to catch up. “I really feel this book-kink thing warrants further exploration. Maybe we could do a study or something, you know, for the good of humanity and all that?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It could spice up our naked times.”
I choked out a laugh and pushed through the open café door onto the footpath.
“Says the man with a reading glasses fetish. Besides, I’m not sure we could handle any more spice in our naked times.
My body won’t take it.” Thunder cracked overhead and the far side of the road disappeared behind the lashing rain.
I stopped and swung around. “But in the interest of full disclosure, how exactly would you see a book kink playing out?”
Nick shrugged, a boyish grin lighting up his face. “I dunno. You book guys are super weird. Ask me how I know.” He snagged that plump lower lip between his teeth and eyed me up and down. “All I’m saying is I’d like to be mentally prepared if the opportunity arose. Maybe have some options in place.”
“Dear God.” I shoved him toward our rental car, a dark green Ford Focus. “Now get in and drive before I show you exactly how weird I can be.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Please say that’s a promise.”
I sent him a look that made him laugh. But his humour died the second I opened the passenger door and he realised he’d have to brave the teaming rain to reach the driver’s side.
He shot me a withering look. “Arsehole.”
I answered with a grin and slid into the passenger seat, dry as toast.
The venue hosting the book fair was a large conference facility set on the edge of downtown Nelson.
Even with my coat pulled over my head, by the time we raced across the car park and pushed through the glass doors into the foyer, I was thoroughly drenched.
But the discomfort vanished the moment I looked into the spacious event room and saw all those books just waiting to be ogled and caressed.
My heart rate leaped and I wiped my clammy hands down the front of my jeans. I thought of Nick’s joking comment about book kinks and realised he wasn’t far wrong. The book fair was a bibliophile’s wet dream and—not that I’d ever admit it—there were definite elements of arousal involved.
As I walked through the foyer, I raised a hand in greeting to more than a few familiar faces—equally passionate collectors and restorers.
One or two of them raised a questioning brow when they clocked Nick’s hand sliding possessively around my waist, but I ignored them.
I’d never hidden my sexuality, but I usually attended these events on my own.
First, I’d never had a boyfriend interested enough to accompany me.
And second, I generally preferred to wander the tables in my own time and not worry about entertaining anyone else.
The realisation that I actually wanted Nick here took me by surprise.
Maybe an old dog could learn new tricks after all.
Nick pointed to a sign that warned everyone to check their coats and umbrellas at the cloakroom in order to protect the books. “Give them here.” He indicated my dripping coat and umbrella. “I’ll sort these out while you get in there and start drooling. I’ll catch you up.”
I didn’t even attempt to argue, just did as he said and put a rain-wet kiss on his lips.
“Thank you. Looks like the auction will take place through there.” I indicated a sign at the far end of the foyer.
“It starts in about thirty minutes, but a friend on the organising committee said I can pop in beforehand since we missed the pre-auction viewing yesterday.”
Nick nodded. “Then I’ll look for you in there. I might—” He hesitated, a red flush creeping up his neck. “I might go back to the car and call my—” He stopped himself, then said, “Chloe.”
I took a few seconds to process that unexpected announcement. I’d hoped to be with him when he made that call. “Are you sure you don’t want me there?”
He nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m just finalising a time for tomorrow, right? How hard can it be?”
How hard indeed? The first time actually hearing your mother’s voice after decades of estrangement? Yeah. Totally fine.
But I didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, I offered again to stay back with him, adding, “The books can wait ten minutes. Nothing is more important to me than you, love. Nothing.”
He kissed my cheek. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.
I kind of want to do this bit on my own.
Like a test to see if I’ve got the balls to handle the rest. When you’re with me, I need it to be because I want you there, not because I can’t do it without you.
” He flushed again. “It’s stupid, I know, and I don’t mean to hurt you—”
“It’s not stupid,” I reassured him. “And I’m not hurt. I understand.” I squeezed his hand. “I really do. As long as you know it’s okay to need people at times. To need help. To need me.”
“I do know it’s okay,” he assured me.
But I wasn’t at all sure he did.
Still, this was his life and his decision.
I needed to respect that. And I didn’t think he was underestimating this first live contact, either.
The worry in those grey eyes put that concern to rest. Nick knew exactly how this would likely hit him and he still wanted to do it alone.
I had to trust he’d include me, after. Doing things together didn’t mean being joined at the hip.
It meant respect, and having each other’s back, and letting the other person grow and be who they needed to be.
It meant sucking up my need to coddle Nick or control him.
It meant letting him do his life his way and simply trusting he’d take me with him. That we would take each other.
I reached for his hand and offered a reassuring smile.
“Okay. This is me backing off. But remember, this is the first time you’ve spoken to her in forty-seven years.
You’re gonna have all kinds of feelings.
Big feelings. But maybe try not to react and shoot from the cuff if she says something you don’t want to hear.
There’ll be plenty of time for the difficult stuff tomorrow without getting off on the wrong foot today. ”
A frown creased his brow, his eyes narrowed, and I thought he was going to tell me I had no idea what I was talking about. Which to be fair, I didn’t, so I quickly added, “I only want you to get the most out of this meeting tomorrow, and not—”
“Fly off the handle and shut the whole thing down before it even gets started?” Nick’s mouth quirked up in a wry grin. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll try to keep my angry side in check for now. Happy?”
I considered the man I loved more than any other and nodded. “There’ll be a time for every emotion, I’m sure, anger included.”
Nick pulled me close and buried his lips in my hair. “I’m going to need you when that happens for a lot of reasons.”
“And I’ll be there. I promise.”
He pushed me away, an unconvincing grin plastered on his face. “Now go and enjoy yourself. And spend loads of money on that book I know you want.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can’t aff—”
“Nope.” He covered my mouth with his hand. “I don’t want to hear any of that. You deserve it, Mads,” he argued. “You don’t treat yourself enough.”
I smiled at that. Nick was always fussing that I lived too rigidly and too frugally. In reply, I protested that I did have my guilty pleasures like an excellent bottle of red wine and the best kitchen equipment money could buy . . . within reason, of course.
“We’ll see,” I told him. “Find me when you’re done. And don’t make me come looking for you.”
His gaze never wavered. “I won’t. I promise.” He turned and made his way through the milling crowd in the foyer toward the exit.
I watched him go, wanting to follow, to keep him safe, while at the same time knowing it would be the absolute wrong thing to do.
So, instead, I took a deep breath and headed for the auction room and a chance to fondle the book I planned to bid on.
A first edition 1938 copy of You Play the Black and the Red Comes Up by Richard Hallas, pseudonym of Eric Knight, who’d also written Lassie Come Home.
The book was the only mystery Eric Knight wrote and had been compared favourably with such classics as The Postman Always Rings Twice and They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
It was a slight detour from the core genre of my collection, but it was advertised as being in excellent condition, was certainly a rarity on the market, and came with a scarce dust cover that really caught my eye.
It would likely go for far more than I was willing to pay—north of fifteen thousand, I suspected—but you never knew at an auction.
New Zealand had a smaller pool of collectors willing to pay that kind of money, and even allowing for international phone bidders, it was still possible to pick up a bargain in the outer colonies.
Even just the thought of handling the book had me frothing—a fact I wouldn’t be sharing with Nick.
I slipped into the auction room, accepted a pair of protective gloves from the security manning the door, and headed for the display table.