Every Time We Touch
Chapter 1
‘Could you order this book for me, please?’ the man asks. ‘It’s titled Curses and How to Break Them, by the author J.K. Fielding.’
I flinch, accidentally knocking the box of glittery pens off the till counter and onto the floor.
There’s no time to pick them up. A man and a woman are standing in front of me.
He is in his mid-twenties with pale blue eyes and styled blond hair.
The woman is about his age, with wavy brown hair and is gazing adoringly at him.
She turns to me and gushes with pride, ‘Marcus is doing some research on curses.’
Raising an eyebrow at Marcus, I ask, ‘Academic interest or personal issue?’
I already know the answer to this. He’s not battling a troubling curse dressed in a designer short-sleeved polo shirt, sunglasses perched on his head and flashing me that charming, lopsided smile.
He chuckles. ‘Academic. I’ve heard this book on curses is…’
My brain loses control of my mouth, and words I would never dream of saying to a customer fly off my tongue. ‘Save your money. It’s not that good. This author, J.K. Fielding, doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
Marcus blinks, caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting me to have read J.K. Fielding’s lengthy book and to have formed an opinion on the author’s thoughts about curses.
The young woman rushes to Marcus’s aid like she’s his own personal bodyguard. Casting me a frosty look, she says, ‘I think Marcus will be the judge of the book, thanks.’
Her clipped tone spikes my agitation. Marcus rewards her with a kiss.
I tap the book’s details into the computer and request a copy. ‘It will take three to five working days. Do you want to collect, or shall I get it delivered?’
‘I will collect,’ he says, reaching for one of the bookmarks that are on sale at the till counter.
His girlfriend pulls a disapproving look. ‘They look trashy, Marcus.’
He waves his phone near the card machine while words jostle on my tongue. I want to tell her that the bookmarks are not trashy, and, if she must know, I spent hours painstakingly searching for a local supplier who could make bookmarks with the name ‘Once Upon a Spine’ on the front.
As they walk away, I bend down to pick up the glittery pens and hear Marcus’s girlfriend. ‘So rude. What would that woman on the till know about curses anyway?’
Her words echo inside my head. What would I know about curses?
I let out a heavy sigh and place the box of pens back on the counter.
The romance book display table always catches my eye.
Today, those pastel covers promise laughter in a field of flowers with a love interest, cuddling up to a sun-kissed crush on a beach towel, or kissing a handsome stranger in the rain.
My heart lets out a series of aches, which I quickly stifle.
A woman approaches the counter, wearing a bold blue, sleeveless summer dress and clutching one of the romance books that everyone on TikTok is raving about, titled Espresso Yourself.
‘I love a good romance.’ She chuckles before handing me the book so I can scan the barcode.
Her fingers come dangerously close to mine.
Fear takes over and I let the book fall onto the counter.
She doesn’t mind and starts to explain her rationale for choosing the book.
‘My boyfriend works in a coffee shop and looks a bit like the male character on the front cover.’
My eyes flick to the man on the cover, who’s casually leaning against a café counter, his confident smile, tousled hair, and dark, piercing eyes promising excitement once the café closes.
I glance at the woman and notice the freshly in-love glow on her face as she takes out her phone.
A twinge of envy stirs within me as I catch sight of the photo on her lock screen; she and her barista boyfriend are kissing in front of a gleaming silver coffee machine.
Her payment goes through. I slide her book into the paper bag and am distracted by a man walking past the counter, running a hand through his mass of dark curls.
He makes me think of Sam. I stop myself and push his face to the back of my mind, but it’s too late.
My focus has gone. As I hand over the book bag to the woman, our fingers brush.
I hold my breath and silently hope their love story lasts a lifetime, ending with them both, old and crinkly, holding hands and reminiscing about how they fell in love over a vanilla latte with an extra shot of love many years ago.
A flash of white light crosses behind my eyes, and when it passes, I see her sitting opposite the man on her lock screen.
They must be in his coffee shop. He’s talking about timing, needing space, and how she deserves better.
She sits very still, her hand resting on the mug as if it might keep her steady.
Her eyes are watery, and her bottom lip has that sad quiver.
The woman hurries away with her book, and I reach under the counter for my bag of sugary boiled sweets.
I pop one in my mouth, savour the sweetness, and wait for the weird, muffled sensation that always follows one of my visions to pass.
When the sounds from the bookshop return – a small child crying about his mother’s choice of book for him, two people talking about a book’s plot twist, and the doorbell jangling – I think about the woman with the barista boyfriend who will soon let her down gently in his coffee shop.
The soft pink and blue covers of the romance books catch my eye again.
They might promise idyllic meet-cutes and kisses in the rain, but they fail to mention that love, like milk, has an expiry date.
Miranda, my boss and owner of this bookshop, Once Upon a Spine, pulls me out of my thoughts.
She hands me a mug of steaming tea and whispers, ‘Cute male book customer alert. He’s in the crime section browsing that new serial killer bestseller.
The one where he takes his victims on dates to the cinema and murders them in the back row.
He matches the description of the sexy serial killer. ’
I look up and spot an older man with black hair, a rugged face and arms the size of tree trunks. ‘Miranda,’ I sigh. ‘You have Frank, and last week you celebrated your fifteenth anniversary.’
Miranda giggles. ‘If that cute man over there wants to take me to the cinema, I wouldn’t say no. We could skip the murder part, and he could just devour me…’
Fortunately, a customer comes up to the counter and rescues me from one of Miranda’s fantasies. He’s embracing the May heatwave in a blindingly pink Hawaiian shirt splashed with palm trees.
Spring and summer are my sworn enemies. The warmer it gets, the fewer layers people wear, and the more complicated my life becomes. I often daydream about living in a cold country where everyone spends the year wrapped up in thick clothing, and long sleeves are non-negotiable.
With a big smile, my customer reveals he’s buying a cycling book for his wife.
‘I am proud of her,’ he beams, running a hand through his greying hair.
‘She’s rediscovered her love for bikes at fifty-nine.
’ I smile and process his card payment. ‘I bought her a new bike last Christmas. Extra wife-points for me.’ He chuckles.
‘It’s like the bike she had as a girl, lavender-coloured with a basket, white wheels, and a bell.
It’s been great seeing her cycling around town. ’
My senses are on high alert; I don’t want to have any physical contact with this man.
He clearly loves his wife, and I don’t want to see how things end for them both and that lovely bike.
My hands become jittery, and I fumble with the bag and the book.
‘Careful,’ he says, catching the bag. I get careless and assume the danger has passed, but he turns sharply to wave at his wife through the shop window, and his bare forearm brushes my hand. Damn – short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts!
A flash of white light fills my vision. I gasp and grip the counter.
As the light clears, I see two police officers in my mind.
They’re standing in a living room, exchanging concerned looks, while my customer sits on the sofa with his head in his hands.
My heart thumps as they tell him about the fatal road accident involving his wife, and I glance at the framed photo on the wall where she’s sitting on her lavender bike and laughing at the camera.
I blink and gulp as the vision fades.
The man is smiling and speaking to me, but I cannot hear him.
It feels as though I’m underwater. His tear-stained face from my vision will stay with me for ages.
He nods and walks towards the door. Reaching for another boiled sweet, I shove it in my mouth and survey the bookshop as the sight of it always calms my agitated state.
Nestled on a cobbled side street off the main road, Miranda’s bookshop, feels like stepping into a good friend’s living room, complete with quirky bookcases, sagging armchairs, and colourful rugs.
It smells of old paper, fresh coffee, and vanilla-scented air spray.
Wooden shelves line every wall, tightly packed with books of every hue.
There are several display tables, curated entirely by Miranda’s whims, such as ‘Books that will make you feel like a hot mess’ and ‘Hot people doing bad things’.
A string of fairy lights zigzags across the ceiling all year round, and the till is cluttered with pastel notebooks, glittery pens, and bookish stickers.
My eyes wander around the shop. They spot a customer flicking through a non-fiction book on dogs, an elderly man reaching for a cookery book, and a woman ordering her three teenage children to look for the romance book she’s pointing to on her phone screen.
The sound of the bookshop rushes back to me.
I smile as one of her children moans at being in a bookshop with his mother and siblings looking for a romance book.
His mother snaps and reminds him of the hours she has spent watching him play football.
She reminds him of how much this book means a lot to her.
Two women approach the till, each carrying books.
I go to great lengths to avoid physical contact and pretend I have a cold, so I don’t pass on any germs. They ignore me, and I listen to their conversation about Psychic Medium Cynthia, who, according to one of the women, never disappoints.
‘Cynthia can contact anyone on the other side,’ explains the woman.
‘She has a team of helpful spirit guides who track down deceased loved ones or unearth family secrets that were taken to the grave. That woman knew what my shady Uncle Malcolm was hiding before he died.’
Her friend blinks in surprise. ‘You’ve never told me about shady Uncle Malcolm. Do we need to go for a glass of wine and have a chat about him?’
As they walk away talking about shady Uncle Malcolm and what he was doing before he had a fatal heart attack, an idea forms in my mind.
Cynthia could contact Mum and Dad. They would surely give me the answers I’ve spent years searching for.
The thought of speaking to Mum and Dad again after all this time makes me feel a little odd, and my mind tries to replay the memory of sitting in the back of the car, but I block it out.
Miranda gives me a break from the till, and I take the opportunity to hide away in my favourite place, the science fiction and fantasy section.
It is both a magical and chaotic corner of the bookshop.
Miranda has hung an old replica sword to the wall and added a note in old handwriting that reads, Please do not duel unless you’re arguing over a book.
The walls are lined with tall bookcases, crammed with epic fantasies, spell books, and sleek dystopian thrillers.
I always think the air in this section of the shop feels a little cooler, which, combined with Miranda’s twinkly lights, gives it an out-of-this-world vibe.
While I am there, I do some internet sleuthing about Psychic Medium Cynthia.
After I’ve requested an appointment for tomorrow, Miranda calls me back to the till so she can make an important business call in the back room.
What she really means is that she wants to chat with her online fashion stylist on Zoom about her latest clothing purchase.
I head for the till and serve two customers. As the last one walks away with their vegan cookery book, the doorbell jingles. I glance up and freeze.
Sam.
He’s standing inside the door, looking just as he did a year ago. Still distractingly attractive with his olive skin, dark curly hair, and muscular arms that could effortlessly carry me out of a burning building if I needed rescuing.