‘What do you see?’
‘I never lose sight of the title.’
‘And what else do you see?’
‘I can always see the cover.’
Quinn smiled. ‘And how did you feel when you saw that cover?’
‘Intrigued.’ Noah nodded, his back to the snowy window. ‘Like I was seeing something old for the first time again. Nostalgic, but also safe, familiar.’
Their eyes met. The words hung between them.
Quinn nodded, blushed. ‘Everywhere you go in this shop, you will see the cover of this book. You will see the display from all angles unless you stand right against the bookshelf. Those feelings are what this display captures.’
‘And there I was, thinking this was just a pretty display.’
‘It is.’ Quinn smiled. ‘And more.’
They fell silent, both looking at the books. Quinn couldn’t handle it anymore. Taking the book perched on the top of the display that Noah moved, he set about putting it back in its place.
‘Here, let me.’ Noah brushed up against him, his scent tantalising Quinn. Quinn slid the Dickens novel back where it came from, Noah holding the books next to it so that the whole display didn’t crumble like Quinn’s willpower. One book wobbled. Quinn’s heart stopped. They were going to come crashing down.
Without thinking, he moved his hand at the same time as Noah. His palm landed on the back of Noah’s warm hand, Noah’s other arm gripping onto Quinn to steady him. Heart beating hard in the close proximity, he exhaled.
The book display was safe.
But his hand still caressed Noah’s. Their hands really did fit together. He imagined it locked in his, entwined like they were glued together. He swallowed, realising that Noah’s grip on his arm had slackened.
Quinn cleared his throat, moving away, but not before Noah met his eye with that same flirty smile on his face.
‘You’re still here.’ Quinn had to say something, and the obvious felt like the safest bet.
‘Still here.’
Noah looked at the snow, as if the winter scene outside explained it. London felt a long way away from here now.
‘Your friend sent me the fundraiser.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Quinn recalled the email from Ivy that morning. Their fundraiser was live, and he’d seen how much they had raised: a measly five pounds.
‘I tweeted it.’
‘You did?’
‘And Instagram-storied it.’
‘Storied? That is good grammar.’
‘I knows.’ Noah smirked.
‘Well, thank you.’
‘Of course.’ Noah crossed his arms. ‘I hope you don’t lose this shop.’
‘Me too.’
‘Do you think you will?’
