Page 19 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

‘I was hoping I could buy a book,’ he’d said.

She’d paused. It was like that special effect in a film, where everything around her went blurry and the only thing in focus was Jack.

‘I want to buy a book,’ he’d reiterated. ‘And someone told me that this place was becoming a bookshop.’

And then, to her complete embarrassment, Louise had found her eyes welling up.

He had taken her by the elbow and steered her into the kitchen, out of sight of everyone else. They were all oblivious anyway; through the blurry haze of her tears, she could see them through the serving hatch, still munching away on the ginger cake and scones.

Jack had put a hand on her arm and given it a brief squeeze, before reaching for the kitchen roll. He tore off a square. ‘Here. Give it a good blow.’

Louise had managed a weak smile, and did as she was told.

He’d moved away from her then, flicking on the kettle, saying, ‘You Brits always want tea at moments like this, don’t you?’

And then he’d left the kitchen.

‘Sorry, everyone, could I have your attention?’ she’d heard him saying loudly, above the throng of voices in the bakery. Conversations stopped. Through the hatch, she’d watched people turn to look at him. ‘I’m afraid we’re closing for the day. Bit of a problem in the kitchen. So if you could all make your way home now, that would be greatly appreciated.’

There’d been mumblings of dissent, but then the sound of chairs being scraped back along the floor. Louise had moved a little closer to the hatch: a line of people were shuffling out of the door, shaking their heads. Jack appeared to be remonstrating with her mother. He gestured towards the kitchen, and Elizabeth finally nodded, and left, Jack bolting the door behind her.

They were locked in together. Louise had found that thought very exciting.

And then he’d come back into the kitchen. ‘Now where do you go round here to buy a book? Since Applethwaite sadly does not have a bookshop. Can you imagine? A village without a bookshop? What is the world coming to?’

She’d laughed, and one of them – was it him? was it her? – had mentioned the bookshop in Skipplewell, and then she’d found herself in Jack’s van, watching his face as he navigated the narrow road out of Applethwaite, and now here they are, about to go into a bookshop together.

And he is right. It is a book lover’s dream: a bright, airy space, lined with modern bookshelves. Bunting hangs across the ceiling and there’s a large cardboard cut-out of the Gruffalo in what is presumably the children’s section.

‘Now, pay attention,’ Jack says. He steps closer to her, and whispers, ‘This place is your competition.’

He’s so close that she can feel his breath on her neck as he speaks. She turns to him, and whispers, ‘Stiff competition. It’s gorgeous.’

Their faces are so close together that an inch or two more and their lips would meet. Louise looks at Jack for a second, wondering if that’s what’s about to happen, but then the shop assistant is beside them – or possibly the owner, though she’s a little on the young side for that – and she’s saying, ‘Would you like some help or d’you prefer to browse?’

‘Browse,’ Jack and Louise say simultaneously, pulling apart from each other.

‘Of course.’ The bookseller smiles. ‘There’s nothing quite like browsing in a bookshop.’

And there isn’t. There’s nothing quite like it. To Louise, a bookshop is a feast for the senses. Shelf after shelf of beautifully organised books. The rustle of paper. That smell as you press your nose against newly printed pages – better than a newborn baby, in Louise’s opinion, though babies come a close second, and ginger cake a close third. (Or perhaps the other way round: ginger cake second, and babies third.) The sensation of running your fingers along the spine. Best of all, there’s the possibility, the chance of discovering something new. A new story to lose yourself in. She looks over at Jack. He’s standing in front of the cardboard Gruffalo, pulling scary faces at it, much to the amusement of a child in a pushchair, whose mother is oblivious, reading the blurb on the back of a book herself. And she notices two women both reach for the same book on the non-fiction table, then gesture for the other to take it, but neither does. Instead, they begin to chat. This is a place where stories happen, not just a place where stories are told.

‘Made a new friend?’ she says to Jack.

He turns and grins. ‘I have. Louise, meet Monster. Monster, meet Louise.’

‘It’s the Gruffalo. Not a monster.’ He’s clearly not up to date with his children’s literature. No kids himself then, presumably.

‘Gruffalo,’ Jack says to the cardboard cut-out. ‘I do apologise. So, are any of your books in here? I mean, ones you’ve edited?’

Louise nods. She gestures towards the Romance section, and takes a Lighthouse Cottage title off the shelves. ‘This series is one of mine.’

His fingers brush hers as he takes the book from her. He opens it somewhere near the middle and begins to leaf through, as if he’s looking for something. He seems to find it. Begins to read, silently, but moving his lips in an exaggerated fashion. He looks at her for a second and her heart seems to give an extra loud thud in her chest. She knows exactly which part he’s reading. He pulls a mock shocked face, putting one hand over his mouth.

‘Oooh, I say,’ he says, reminding her of Kenneth Williams in the old Carry On films. ‘Steamy stuff, this. You dark horse, Louise.’

‘I didn’t write it,’ she mumbles, flustered. ‘I just edited it.’

‘It’s beautifully edited.’ He raises one eyebrow at her.