Much Ado About You Read online

  “So why do I have days where I feel miserable and lonely?” I asked him, wondering if I’d ever work out the answer. “Is it because I’m genuinely lonely and looking for love? Or is it because all of my friends have found companionship, even love in most cases, and I feel their quiet pity for me because I haven’t? Is it because society tells me that’s what I should want out of life? Or do I really want it? Am I so spoiled by my upbringing, I’m conditioned to continually want more than what I have?” I shook my head and then immediately stopped when the room shifted off its axis. I gripped the counter and took a deep breath. “I thought if I came here and put some distance between myself and my life, I might figure out what I wanted so I could finally do something about it.”

  “Do something about it?”

  “If I’m content, truly content, to live alone, then I’ll make peace with the fact that society judges it unusual for me to stay single. But if I really want to find someone to share my life with, then I need to start making more of an effort to find that person. Even though it’s hard and it hurts, and I may never find him.”

  At Roane’s silence, I suddenly felt stupid for telling this man things I hadn’t even told Greer.

  “It all must sound silly to you.”

  “No,” he said emphatically, his hand coming down to rest on top of mine. I saw a light of understanding in his eyes. “I realize the pressure is worse for a woman—which is bloody ridiculous in this day and age—but men feel the pressure too.” He released my hand, his small smile almost self-deprecating, as his gaze dropped to his plate. “I’ve never been that guy who could sleep around, have one-night stands. And living in a small community hasn’t made finding someone easy. I’ve had a few long-term relationships but the last was two years ago. And the men round here, they don’t mean anything by it, but they give me a good ribbing for not availing myself of willing tourists and women from other villages who’ve made it clear they’d be happy to see me.

  “I’ve never wanted that.” I felt a little breathless at the intensity in his eyes. “It doesn’t do it for me. I need to feel more than just the presence of a warm body. Sex is better for me when I care about the woman I’m with.”

  Already warm from my hangover, I flushed uncomfortably hot at his words. “Oh.”

  His smirk was somewhat bitter. “Men aren’t supposed to want that, let alone say it, right? It makes them less of a man not to be out there sowing his wild oats. There’s something effeminate about a man who is turned off by sex with a stranger and believes wholeheartedly in monogamy.”

  “Women don’t think that.” I certainly didn’t. In fact, I found his honesty way too intriguing for my own good.

  “No. But like you said, everyone has this idea of what you should want out of life. And you’re right. There are places in this world where folk are just trying to survive. We’re privileged enough that our lives have moved beyond basic survival, but it means we have time to impress these stupid ideas of ‘normality’ upon each other.” He ran a hand through his bed-mussed hair. “My mum, Milly, and all the like, they badger me almost every week about ‘settling down and finding a woman to keep me company.’” Our eyes locked as he continued, “But unlike you, I know that I want that. Definitely. I want someone to love, to share life’s difficulties with, to have bairns and watch them grow. To make a little world with someone. Which means there are days, thankfully few but they exist, when it doesn’t feel so nice for all those people who are supposed to care about me to hound me about the thing I want most in life.”

  Emotion clogged my throat.

  Not just because I was sad that Roane felt that way.

  But because for the first time in a very long time, I felt like someone saw me. Understood me. Truly.

  Tears I didn’t even feel embarrassed about shimmered in my eyes as I reached for Roane Robson’s hand and curled mine tight around it. “You’ll find it, Roane.” I believed he would.

  “You don’t know that.” He squeezed my hand, giving me a small smile. “You don’t know me or the future.”

  “I don’t know the future, agreed. I do know you a little, and I see you a lot.”

  He understood. I saw it in the way he studied my face and by the way his hand tightened in mine. “I see you too, Evie.”

  It was too big a moment to share with an almost stranger, but it was happening, and it was real.

  I made a decision in that moment. To put aside my attraction for Roane and embrace the connection between us. I’d felt something similar the instant I met Greer. Just like with Greer, I was determined to make a friend of Roane.

  “When I have a day off and don’t feel like upchucking, do you think you can show me your farm?”

  “Friends then?” he surmised, his expression relaxed and happy again.

  “I just told you some of my deepest worries. We’re friends or I have to kill you.”

  Chuckling at my teasing, Roane nodded. “I’ll take friendship over death.”

  “Wise choice. I’m inexperienced at murder. It could get messy.”

  He shook his head at my nonsense. “Hurry and eat the rest of your breakfast. Shadow and I need to get to work, but we’re not leaving until you’ve had at least three more bites.”

  Groaning, I glared at my plate. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Well, it’s that or I remind you of the moment last night you started singing a song called ‘When You’re Good to Mama’ to Old Man Thompson.”

  My eyes widened in horror, and Roane began to shake with laughter. “From Chicago?”

  He shrugged. “You said it was from some musical.”

  Yes. The musical Chicago.

  “‘When you’re good to Mama, Mama’s good to you,’” I squeaked out.

  Roane gave a bark of laughter. “It was the best night of Old Man Thompson’s life. We thought he’d need his pacemaker checked.”

  “You did not!” I gasped, aghast.

  Seeing him bury his face in his hand with laughter, I smacked him playfully across the back. “Stop!”

  Unfortunately, that only made him laugh harder.

  Seven

  It was opening day, and while I should have been excited, I was thankful for the heavy rain falling outside because it meant I could sit behind the counter and nurse my hangover without interruptions from customers.

  Penny had informed me it was time to order titles for the new releases bookcase, and she trusted me to do this. I thought that was huge. She gave me a budget, and the distributor resources that offered some insight into what titles were popular for the season. As a reader of all genres, and part of the online book community, I felt I had a finger on that particular pulse. Still, I was grateful Penny trusted me to order new stock, and it was fun! For a moment, I forgot I was ordering them for the store, and not for myself.

  However, the work also opened my eyes to the complexity of stock rotation for an independent bookstore. Hours passed as I attempted to work out Penny’s ordering history. I knew she worked with the local schools and ordered titles the kids would be reading in school every term. That had already been done for the current term.

  There also appeared to be a seasonal pattern. For example, she ordered any new books about the area around late spring/summer along with the latest bestselling children’s books. Yet, as I fell farther down the stock-taking rabbit hole, I discovered there were a lot of nonfiction titles that just weren’t selling. I itched to plump Penny’s summer stock with beach reads.

  As I opened more files for previous years’ sales, trying to get a grasp of what worked and what didn’t depending on the season, it suddenly occurred to me that it was none of my business. I was getting carried away. I was there to temporarily run the store.

  Deprived of the many hours, probably days, it would take to look through sales history and the current stock situation, I turned to my other work: content e
dits from another client who wrote crime fiction. While I’d felt okay scrolling through stock and sales history, as I worked on the edits, the screen made me feel slightly nauseated, and my hangover began to catch up with me. All I really wanted to do was curl up in bed and listen to the rain.

  Instead I sipped at my coffee, worked for a bit, and then gazed distractedly out at the rain bouncing off the sea. Perhaps, after my experience with Aaron, I was a fool to believe in the connection I felt with Roane. But unlike with Aaron, I’d actually met Roane. Sat face-to-face with him and gotten a real measure of the man. My instincts told me I could trust him, and I wouldn’t let some stranger I’d mistaken for a confidant cause me to be mistrustful of new friends.

  That’s all Roane was. I’d friend-zoned him to protect myself. Despite his earlier attraction to me, he seemed fine with that. No doubt that had something to do with my drunken escapades the night before and then his watching me vomit.

  Not sexy.

  I gave a huff of sheepish laughter and then groaned when the sound ricocheted around my head.

  Around noon the rain slowed to a drizzle, and I was contemplating closing the shop for a half hour when a small figure appeared at the door and pushed it open.

  Folding back the large hood that had obscured her face, a young woman let the door slam shut behind her and gave me a tremulous smile. She unzipped her raincoat and gave it a little flick, rainwater splattering on the door behind her. Holding out a Tupperware box, she slowly approached the counter.

  Her bright red hair was pulled back in a severe bun that was so tight it elongated her eyes. She had a pretty face with charming freckles sprinkled across her nose and the crest of her cheeks. It was hard to guess at her age because without a speck of makeup on she looked very young, but she was dressed much older and dowdier than her years. Her raincoat came to her knees, and beneath it was a light-knit navy sweater with a high neck and a pleated beige skirt that hit her ankles. Plain, somewhat clunky Mary Janes completed the look. She wore no jewelry except for the simple gold cross around her neck.

  I grinned at her in welcome and slid off my stool, pretending the movement didn’t make the room spin. My first customer! “Welcome to Much Ado About Books.”

  She smiled a shy but very pretty smile. “Hello.”

  When no other words were forthcoming, I glanced down at the Tupperware box. Looking back at the woman, I asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Oh. My name is Caroline.” She licked her lips nervously. “I, uh, well, I heard what you did for Shadow yesterday.” Her accent was more Downton Abbey than Alnster. I wondered if she was a tourist. But if so, how did she know Shadow? Caroline pushed the Tupperware box toward me. “This is to thank you.”

  Looking down at the cakes, I was a little flabbergasted.

  Who was Caroline to Roane and Shadow?

  “Uh, okay.” I took the box and peeled open the lid. There were cupcakes inside, decorated with pink frosting that looked like roses. “These are beautiful. Thanks.” Surprisingly, my stomach rumbled.

  “I’m Roane’s cousin,” Caroline explained.

  Oh. Okay. The accent threw me, but looking at her again, I realized she and Roane shared the same beautiful chestnut eyes. “Right.” My grin widened. “Well, it was nothing, really, but thank you for the cupcakes.”

  She shook her head. “It was everything, Ms. Starling. Shadow is Roane’s best friend. He’s a wonderful dog.” Her eyes brightened with tears. “I don’t know what we would have done if something happened to him.” Caroline’s cheeks suddenly flushed, and she looked down at her shoes. “You must think me such a goose getting upset over a dog.”

  My lips twitched at the way she talked. Seriously, how old was she? “I don’t think you’re a goose at all. I’m a dog person. I get it. They’re family.”

  Some of her embarrassment faded, and she nodded. “They are.”

  Intrigued by Roane’s cousin, I leaned against the counter. “So, do you live in Alnster?”

  “On the outskirts, yes. I live with my aunt. Do you know the road that cuts into the woodlands? We live up there.”

  I remembered there being woodlands on the road that led into Alnster, but that was about it. Surmising that’s where she meant, I nodded. “So is your aunt Roane’s aunt?”

  “No. We’re cousins on our paternal side, and Aunt Helena was my mother’s sister.”

  “So you’re a Robson.”

  Her lips pinched together. “Technically yes. But Aunt Helena had my name changed when I came to live with her.”

  There was something unhappy in Caroline’s eyes. That and her indeterminate age intrigued me. I wanted to ask more questions, but she started backing away toward the door. “Well, I better get home. Thank you again.”

  “It was no problem, really. Thanks for the cupcakes. Maybe I’ll see you at The Anchor sometime?”

  Instead of answering, Caroline gave me a weak smile and hurried out of the door and back into the drizzly day.

  “Well, that was weird,” I mumbled.

  Looking at the cupcakes, I decided to take that break after all.

  A few minutes later I was in the apartment, preparing a sandwich, and eyeing the delicious cupcakes the whole time. Arranging them on a platter, I snapped a photo and posted it on my Instagram. My friends were enjoying my shots of England. I captioned this one with “A gift from a friendly neighbor.”

  Then, like an impatient kid, I took a bite out of one instead of waiting until I’d eaten my sandwich.

  The sponge cake melted in my mouth, sharp, flavorful strawberry jam oozing onto my tongue from the center. The buttercream frosting was perfect. Not too sweet, light and creamy.

  It was the best freaking cupcake I’d ever had in my life!

  I wondered if Caroline worked at the bakery in town.

  Finishing the cupcake, forcing myself not to eat another, I put them back into the Tupperware box to keep them fresh. “Note to self,” I murmured just as I was about to sit down to my sandwich, “ask Roane about his cousin.”

  It was as if I’d conjured him.

  A loud banging had me rushing to the window. Peering down onto the street below, I saw a familiar figure at the front door. Shadow stood at his side.

  Heart rate increasing, I hurried out of the apartment and down to the bookstore, regretting the faster pace almost immediately. Light-headed, I gripped the store door for balance and yanked it open.

  Roane pushed his way inside as he brushed off the hood of his raincoat. Shadow followed, and as I closed the door and locked it, the dog shook his body and sprayed everything in his vicinity with rainwater.

  Me included.

  He was forgiven when he trotted over to me and jumped up to say hello. Despite my light-headedness, which was seriously worsened by a huge dog putting his wet paws on my shoulders, I stumbled, laughing and jerking my chin away to avoid his kisses.

  “Shadow, down,” Roane said, not sounding amused.

  “It’s fine,” I promised, petting the Dane just before he heeded Roane’s orders. I had two muddy marks on my shoulders from his paws, and Roane’s expression clearly said that it wasn’t fine.

  “It’ll come out,” I said, waving off his concern. “What brings you back so soon?”

  He held up two paper bags that had rain splatter on them. “Lunch from the bakery. I wanted to make sure you were eating.”

  “I was actually just about to sit down to a sandwich I’d made,” I told him as I took one of the bags from him and peered inside. The smell of chicken hit me hard, and my belly rumbled. “But screw my crappy ham and cheese sandwich, this will do much better.”

  Roane chuckled and made to move past the counter, but my laptop caught his attention. Shooting me a curious look, he dipped his head toward the screen. “What’s this? Do you write?”

  I made a face. “No, Nosey. I’m a fr
eelance editor.”

  He frowned at me. “You never mentioned that last night.”

  “It’s about the only thing I didn’t mention.” I made a face, remembering all the personal stuff I’d blurted at The Anchor.

  With a commiserating smile, Roane led me into the back hallway. Shadow trotted at our heels. “So,” Roane said as he kicked off his muddy Wellington boots at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you edit fiction books for a publisher?”

  “No, I edit books for indie authors. People who self-publish.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s a thing now, isn’t it.”

  I grinned as I followed him up to the apartment. “It’s been a thing for a while now, Farmer Robson.”

  “And you make money from this?” He glanced over his shoulder at me as he walked into the kitchen.

  “Yeah. I did it to supplement my income. Chicago is an expensive place to live.”

  “What made you decide to be an editor then?”

  The question made me halt in the doorway. No one had ever asked me that question. That couldn’t be right. I thought on it and decided it was right. Not even Greer had asked me. I guessed, however, my best friend just assumed she already knew the answer: I loved words. “I didn’t know I wanted to be an editor until I started working for the film mag. I just knew I wanted to be in publishing, to be surrounded by the written word. I can’t explain my love for words. Not well, anyway. They’re like a golden sunset across a tranquil sea, viewed from a run-down shack. They can turn even the most ordinary of feelings or thoughts into poetry.”