Chapter Twenty
Tess very much doubted that any other literary characters that Gabe planned on summoning would be even a little bit promising.
His choices so far had been very patchy.
Romeo, spotty emo boy.
Gatsby, high-functioning alcoholic doomed by his love for the wrong woman.
Winnie-the-Pooh, actually fucking adorable.
Jo March, a thrill to meet someone that Tess’s pre-pubescent self had idolised but also very draining.
Yet apparently they still weren’t done.
Tess would have been happy not to meet any other literary suitors, but to drink more wine, fully demolish what was left of the picky bits and chat shit with Gabe.
But no, he was holding up another book even though Tess was now suffering extreme flirtation fatigue.
‘This is one of the greatest lovers in literature,’ he said temptingly, though Tess had eaten far too much cheese to want to be seduced.
‘Casanova? Byron? Some doomy bloke from a Greek myth?’
‘No!’ Gabe said rather peevishly. He fussed around with the book, unlocking it while Tess got to her feet to greet the new arrival. Literary speed dating was just as tiring as the real thing. ‘May I present Oliver Mellors, the actual lover from Lady Chatterley’s Lover?’
‘The gamekeeper?’ Tess asked but the bells were chiming once more and the air was shimmering and the gold dust was gold dusting and a tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway.
Tess immediately straightened up and put her shoulders back so her breasts were breasting to the best of their ability.
This new arrival had dark hair, a smile that was positively indecent and blue eyes that were fixed on Tess, lingering on what she and Saskia called ‘their three Bs’.
Boobs, belly and booty. He was very handsome, verging on beautiful, even though he was wearing tweed.
Not just a shapeless tweed jacket but full tweed.
Even so, there was a sense of caged strength about him like a coiled spring. In fact, he reminded Tess of …
‘Why don’t you introduce yourself,’ Gabe suggested as Mellors stepped forward, his eyes still roaming freely over Tess’s body. It had been a long, long time since anyone had looked at Tess with such evident pleasure.
‘I’m Tess,’ she said, her voice quite giggly and breathy, because she really was ridiculous.
Put a handsome man in her eyeline, a man who actually seemed like he appreciated her on an aesthetic level, and she turned into a simpering idiot.
She was certainly learning as much about herself as what she might like in a partner.
‘I’m a writer. Sort of. I like cheese. And books.
And cosy nights in but also long walks.’
Tess was appalled at how little game she had.
Not that Mellors seemed to mind. He was wearing a flat cap, as gamekeepers probably did, but he took it off and bowed his head in an ironic fashion.
‘And I’m Mellors. Intellectually, I might not come up to par, but I have a kind heart, a willing penis, a good head on my shoulders and the balls to say “shit” and “fuck” in front of a lady,’ he said in a rough, Midlands accent.
He finished up with a cheeky grin and held out his hand to Tess so he could help her down from the dais with a strong, masterful grip.
This was more like it! Yes, he was a bit unreconstructed, but he was also very sexy, there was no denying it.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Tess said as she did a strange thing with her eyelashes. Fluttering them. God, she was fluttering them.
Mellors hadn’t let go of Tess’s hand so he could keep her still as he took a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree look at her.
‘That’s a lovely arse you’ve got on thee, Tess,’ he said enthusiastically, lasciviously even. ‘Can’t abide a flat arse on a woman but you’ve got a soft round bottom that gives me a cock stand. Do you want to feel it?’
OK, well it had been nice while it lasted.
‘Um, no, I really don’t,’ Tess said.
‘That’s absolutely no way to speak to a woman,’ Gabe thundered as he looked from man to book as if he couldn’t decide the best course of action. ‘Take your hands off her!’
‘I can handle myself,’ Tess said, even as something inside of her throbbed a little at the low-pitched timbre of Gabe’s growl.
‘Ah, I’d rather you let me handle you,’ Mellors said. Tess tried to detach her hand but he was holding her fast. ‘That’s a bottom made for rutting!’
He did let her go then but only so he could grab a handful of said bottom so suddenly and roughly that it made Tess gasp.
It made her do some grabbing of her own. Her hand. His balls. She squeezed them viciously as she’d been taught at a women’s self-defence class, which The Sentinel had provided for their staff, rather than stumping up for a taxi if they had to work late.
‘Shit! You little …’
Whatever Mellors was about to say was cut short by Gabe’s fist making swift and brutal contact with his cheek.
‘How dare you? How dare you put your hands on her!’ he shouted, as Mellors took a step back, squared his shoulders and raised his own fists.
‘I’ll knock your block off,’ he threatened, dancing on his toes as Gabe narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils, which did incredible things to his cheekbones.
Tess looked from one very handsome man to the other as they circled each other warily.
It was quite hot.
Correction.
It was very hot.
They were fighting over her. Why was that hot when Tess was a card-carrying feminist who had just proved that when it came to unwelcome advances she could look after herself?
Even though Tess had read Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman at a formative age, it seemed that there were certain biological urges hardwired into her DNA. She was almost tempted to let them fight it out and then to the victor, the spoils.
‘Can’t put a woman with a soft arse like that in front of a red-blooded man and expect him not to touch,’ Mellors said in a taunting voice, jabbing a fist at Gabe, who ducked away.
‘You can and you should. Exercise some fucking self-control,’ Gabe spat, driving his fist into Mellor’s stomach.
Gabriel Sharma dropping an F-bomb and throwing a second punch was the hottest thing yet. He was wilfully damaging library property just to defend Tess’s honour although that ship had sailed many moons ago.
‘Guys! You need to stop this now,’ Tess said half-heartedly but they were still dancing and ducking and jabbing at each other. She was going to have to be the designated adult here.
She picked up the copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which was on the floor where Gabe had tossed it because he had officially lost the plot, and opened it. ‘Restore!’ she said just a nanosecond too late, as Mellor’s fist collided with Gabe’s jaw.
‘Fuck! Ow! Fuck!’ Gabe rocked back on his heels. He tried to throw a retaliatory punch but he connected with nothing but thin air and grey glitter. The scent of peat and bonfires hung heavy in the room, but Mellors, thankfully, was gone.
Gabe managed to right himself and with one hand clutching his chin, the other adjusting his glasses, which were hanging desperately to his face by only one arm, he wheeled round to look at Tess, who was hunting for the key.
‘Are you all right?’ he said frantically.
‘Did he hurt you? God, Tess, I’m so sorry.
I can’t apologise enough. I never dreamt …
I never thought. I genuinely did read that one all the way through even though I have to say that I found D.H. Lawrence’s prose rather turgid.’
It was so utterly and beautifully typical of Gabe.
To go from panic that Tess might say bad things about the library in The Sunday Sentinel to having a pop at one of the so-called greatest novelists of the twentieth century.
She would bet that he didn’t shit talk his precious philosophers like that.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, as she crawled along the floor. ‘Not the first time some bloke on a first date got handsy. Will probably be the last, as I’m pretty sure that I’m never going on another date ever again. You’ve cured me!’
‘I don’t want to cure you,’ Gabe said, crouching down. ‘Why are you on the floor? I would get up if I were you. I asked Patrick to run the vacuum around, but I don’t think he did a very good job.’
‘I can’t find the key,’ Tess said, turning her head to look at Gabe, who appeared to be looking at her soft round bottom. Then he realised Tess was looking at him looking at her rutworthy arse and he raised his head.
He put a hand to his jaw and winced. ‘I have the key in my pocket,’ he muttered.
‘You’re hurt.’ Tess got to her feet and held her hand out to Gabe. She didn’t have the upper body strength to pull him upright, but it felt like the right thing to do. Especially when he didn’t let go of her hand once he was vertical again. ‘Let me see what the damage is.’
Gabe tensed, but he let Tess gently take his chin and turn his face towards the lamp on the bookcase, the only reliable light source in the room. ‘It’s not broken but I think it will probably be quite sore for a day or two.’
She ran one finger along his jaw. She could feel the way his flesh quivered in response, the faint promise of stubble. His lips parted. He looked down at her.
Neither of them said anything, which was a first. They never usually lapsed into silence.
One of them, or more often both of them, had plenty to say.
It wasn’t an awkward silence though. It was comfortable, companionable, as if they were talking without words.
But the longer they looked at each other, the more charged the not talking became so that Tess was aware of the sound of her breaths, her heart thumping, even the blood rushing through her veins.
Then Gabe winced again. ‘It does hurt a little,’ he said rather plaintively.
‘You were very brave.’ Tess had to give credit where it was due. ‘Also, I never thought you’d be so handy with your fists.’
‘I box as part of my exercise routine,’ Gabe revealed. ‘The Spartans believed in always being battle-ready.’
‘Of course they did,’ Tess said softly, her finger still on Gabe’s face. Maybe kind of stroking it. Maybe. ‘You never know when you might have to defend a lady’s honour from a lecherous gamekeeper out of a book.’
‘Fail to prepare and you prepare to fail,’ Gabe noted huskily.
‘Is that the Spartan philosophy?’
‘Well, it’s actually accredited to Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of America,’ Gabe said and now that he’d well actually-ed, the moment that they’d been having was very definitely gone.
Tess took a step back and handed Gabe the book that she was still holding. ‘I can’t believe that you of all people would throw library property about like that.’
Predictably Gabe stiffened like he was all but paralysed with horror.
‘The circumstances were extenuating,’ he said, his eyes now scrutinising the leather-bound novel to see if he was going to have to give himself a written warning for gross negligence.
‘Anyway, I’m fine, the book is fine, you seem to be fine and again, I can only apologise for that man’s behaviour.
’ He bristled at the memory of it. ‘Now, are you ready for your last two dates?’
Would this dating marathon ever be over? Apparently not. Tess was so weary that she had to hoist herself back up on the dais, then sat down with an audible noise that she hadn’t thought she’d start making until she was in her forties.
‘I hope you’ve saved the best for last.’ Tess couldn’t help but sound sceptical. It didn’t help that Gabe suddenly looked very cagey.
‘Are you still being open-minded?’ he asked.
‘What fresh hell is waiting for me between those pages?’
The book, even by the library’s standards, looked ancient.
The gold scrolled title had all but rubbed off.
Tess really hoped it wasn’t a copy of the Bible.
She was pretty sure that there wasn’t anyone she fancied in the Bible.
Besides, even though she didn’t believe in organised religion, having a date with a biblical type seemed very wrong.
‘I need you to think outside the box,’ Gabe said, which was precisely what someone would say if they’d come up with some cuckoo bananas scheme that was doomed for disaster.
‘Oh God!’ There were hardly any picky bits left to stress eat. ‘I dread to think who you’ve lined up for me next.’
‘It will be fine,’ Gabe said without much conviction as he unlocked the book. ‘Now, hear me out, The knight from Chaucer’s Tales!’
‘No! No! No!’ Tess shouted over the bells. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘If you’re going to be like that …’
They were both shouting now to be heard, not over the bells, but the clanging, as Tess’s next date appeared.
‘Gabe! He’s wearing a suit of fucking armour!’
The knight tried to say something, there was a faint grunting sound coming from within, but his visor was stuck, so thankfully he couldn’t ‘verily’ and ‘prithily’ and whatever else it was that people said back in the sodding medieval times.
‘You’re being very closed off,’ Gabe had the nerve to say.
‘Like lover boy over there welded into his armour,’ Tess pointed out.
‘They didn’t weld suits of armour …’ Gabe unbelievably started to say, like that was something Tess cared about, but before she could tell him that in the shrillest, strongest terms possible, they were interrupted.
The knight was given a good, hard shove so that he fell into the room, and Ella Sharma-Banarjee stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, wearing her ginormous baby in a sling and an absolutely furious expression on her face. ‘What the hell is going on in here?’