“Thank you so much for the book.” My customer peeks inside the paper bag and smiles again.
“Let me know if you like it. I’m always looking for new recs.” Knowing what my customers enjoy is crucial, and personal recommendations are useful for ensuring I’m stocking what people in Bethnal, and those who visit from other parts of London, want to read. And even more important is selecting and sourcing the perfect book for the London Mafia Smut Club.
Honestly though, it’s rarely a problem finding new favourites. One of the best bits of my job is the advance review copies. I get hardback editions or eBooks of my favourite authors’ books weeks before release, and store all the pre-order copies carefully for my customers. And I have a precious copy for myself, to read while Zane plays with the kids, or in snatches of time while my assistant manages the shop.
“I will! Good luck with…” She nods awkwardly. “Everything.”
I grin. “It’s alright. Yes, I am pregnant. Twenty-eight weeks.”
I’m carrying our first child, and even with the physical surprises like ankles the size of an elephant’s and being rather front heavy, I’m so, so happy. Over the moon, and incredibly proud to have Zane’s baby. He’s given me everything I could want, and far, far more than I ever thought I’d have: love.
There isn’t a day that goes past without Zane telling and showing me that he loves me in whispered words, possessive touches, or by making me lose my mind with pleasure.
“You’re so lucky,” she sighs, a look of longing taking over her face.
“You’re single?” And it’s a correct guess, because she nods.
“And that isn’t going to change. I never get evenings off work. I’m a nanny,” she explains.
No time off? “Your boss must be awful.”
A dreamy expression floats onto her face. “He is. And he isn’t.”
“Well, keep the faith. You’ll find someone, or they’ll find you. Maybe when you don’t expect it. That was certainly true for me.”
“Maybe.” And her voice is a bit sad.
“At least we have books,” I say comfortingly. “Book boyfriends are the best boyfriends.”
It isn’t exactly a lie. How would I know about real boyfriends? I’ve only ever had my perfect husband, who—while he doesn’t have bat wings—is everything I could wish.
“Men are better fictional, I guess.” She fiddles with the handle of the carrier bag.
“You know, the next in the series will be released in the new year.” I avoid answering. It’s not nice to gloat that you’re incandescently happily married. “Do you want me to pre-order it for you?”
She brightens. “Oh yeah! That would give me something to look forward to after Christmas. Yes, please. My name is Bella Harlow.”
She gives me a London address in King’s Cross, London, and I write it all down and make a mental note to ask Zane about the kingpin of that territory.
“Thanks! Happy Christmas!” Bella turns to the door with a cheery wave that seems forced.
“Hope you get what you want for Christmas!” I call after her.
She pauses. “Not much chance of that,” she says, almost to herself, then pastes on a smile. “Cross your fingers for me, and I can’t wait to see your baby when they arrive! I love babies.”
“I will,” I promise, then she’s gone.
A tentative “Hi,” turns my attention to my next customer. It’s hours later when I’ve served dozens more people looking for Christmas gifts. I close the shop late because some browsers can’t find the right thing, and I have to help them. But finally, I’m on my own in my dream bookstore.
When I first opened, I used to bring home a new book for Zane every day, at his insistence. He said he wanted to read all the books I’d read. He honestly prefers audiobooks though, and while he still asks for a weekly recommendation, I don’t bring him paperbacks anymore. And it’s fun to see him enjoying books he’s picked for himself, too. I’m pretty sure he has the highest audio subscription tier, and buys extra credits.
It doesn’t take long to deal with the money, and I’m finishing when the back of my neck prickles. I look up and see Zane in thedoorway. He’s let himself in with his key, and is leaning against the inner frame, his tall form imposing despite his relaxed pose. My heart patters, just as it did when I first saw him.
He’s breathtakingly handsome, but instead of striding in to murder the man who would have kept me from him, he’s smiling softly.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, smiling back.
“Last night. Tonight. The rest of our lives,” he replies in a low rasp that shivers up my spine.
