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I collapsed in my seat at the thought.
I must be mistaken. No one had ever tried flirting with me before – or at least no one like Marcus Ravelli, who surely couldn’t need me for my money.
Jaak had started talking again, something about a party being thrown by one of our neighbors, and Marcus answered my brother as he sat on the armchair near me. Our knees touched, and instant heat – lethal, treacherous, and intoxicating – licked my skin.
I carefully swung away, my back rigid with shock, my throat tight as I struggled not to whimper.
Yes,whimper.
Not gasp, not scream, not anything but whimper, and I didn’t understand it.
Actually, I didn’t understand anything at all when it came to Marcus Ravelli.
Why was he so different?
It was a question I shouldn’t have wanted an answer to, but because I was an idiot, I did, and the answer would eventually unfold itself over the summer, like a flower whose fragrance would linger...every time Marcus and I touched.
Two
“Not a euro more, andthat’s my final offer.” I tried not to smile as I gave the ultimatum, knowing how this would end. Mr. Paddy owned the largest used bookshop in town, and we have had this same conversation from since I was seven years old and had finally been entrusted with my own allowance.
“You drive a hard bargain, miss.” The older man took off his cap, scratching his head as he mulled my offer over. He was only pretending of course, and we both knew it.
Finally, he grumbled, “Alright, it’s a done deal.”
I beamed. “I knew you’d see it my way.” I handed him the notes, and he started stocking my worn-out tote bag with my purchases.
It was a beautiful morning, and the wonderfully familiar sights ofBruin Hemelwere just enough to make me forget about yesterday’s fiasco. Everything here smelt of warmth and love, from the freshly baked pastries of the corner bakery to the wonderfully musty smell of hand-bound tomes coming from the town’s numerous bookshops.
Summer in Bruin Hemel also meant festival season, and so every inch of the town was bustling with activity. Market Thursdays became a daily thing just for this season, and all the stores had sale posters hanging on their doors and display windows. Food carts also popped up at every other street, alongside makeshift stalls in which everything related to arts and craft were sold. The poets had their vintage typewriters in front of them, scribes for hire who were ready to pen anything from a haiku to a sonnet. The scrapbook artists were also out in full force for this year’s festival, their wares neatly arranged on their foldable tables: craft scissors and washi tape on one side, boxes of clear stamps and colored pens in another. A few minutes were all they needed, and their happy customers would be able to take home a personalized memento of their festival tour.
By the time I had to walk back home, my tote bag practically weighed a ton while my wallet was suffering from overuse. The crowd started to thin as I made it out of town, and by the time I reached the private road leading back to our estate, noise from the festival had faded completely.
I pulled out a random book from my tote bag and smiled happily at the sight of a velvet-coveredBlack Beautyedition that I had gotten for just two euros. Thrift shopping was a beloved pastime of mine, and nothing gave me a greater thrill than knowing I had scored a huge bargain.
I ran my fingers lovingly on the cover, savoring the feel of its texture. Oh, bliss. Dropping the book back into the tote bag, I began rummaging through my purchases, remembering the other bargain book I had scored. It was a relatively rare edition ofThe Tenant of Wildefell Hall,and when I couldn't find it, I started taking everything out.
