This Book Made Me Think of You(27)

“January seems a good time for a new start,” Sade says with a nod. “And you know where we are if you want to come back. But I have a feeling you won’t. Now, given the clients we work with and the need for confidentiality, we’ll have to ask you to leave. Effective immediately. I hope that won’t be a problem?”

Sade’s eyes sparkle, one eyebrow raised.

“I think I’ll manage,” Tilly replies with a smile.

“Then get out of here, Tilly Nightingale.”





Seventeen




“The window, Alfie!” Tilly says as she pushes open the door to Book Lane, Alfie looking down from the ladder where he is perched, shelving a stack of books. He wobbles slightly, nearly dropping the stack under his arm, then rights himself and adjusts his glasses.

The sun streams through the glass and shines on the covers of the books propped there, each and every one featuring cats. In addition to the books, there are a few Mog and The Cat in the Hat soft toys as well as a figurine of Jiji from Kiki’s Delivery Service. Right in the center of the window is a straw basket, where Georgette luxuriates in the spotlight.

“It looks amazing. You included all the ones we talked about.”

“Well, I have to thank you for the inspiration,” Alfie replies. He’s in another knitted sweater, this time a deep maroon. His hair is as wild as ever, sticking up in all directions, and he runs a hand over his jawline, brushing it against his beard. “The display has proven very popular. It seems there really is a crossover between book lovers and cat lovers.”

“See! We were right!”

They smile at each other like two nerdy children who have each just discovered another fan of their favorite book series.

“I’m after some books,” Tilly announces to break the silence. “As of one hour ago, I am now unemployed and in need of reading material to keep me occupied.”

“Oh no!” He fixes her with his deep brown eyes, which are soft with what looks like genuine concern. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. It was my choice. I haven’t felt this…free in ages.”

“Well, in that case, congratulations. And as for books to keep you occupied, how about we resolve that immediately?”

He climbs down from the ladder. “What did you make of Beach Read? And thanks for the postcard.”

She’d spotted it when she came in, pinned to the shop noticeboard. A smile spreads across her face.

“I loved it. Everything you said about it was spot-on. I was hooked. It really helped me switch off.”

“If you enjoyed it, you should read Emily Henry’s other books. And you might like these too.”

In what seems to Tilly remarkable speed, he flits around the shop, pulling down titles until he has a small stack of books in his arms, their spines a colorful rainbow of pinks.

“Oh wow. You really do know your romance novels,” she says with a small laugh.

“Men can read romance novels, too, you know,” he replies a little gruffly, his jaw tensing and his brown eyes flashing at her.

“Of course. I didn’t mean…”

“Especially when they need to keep up on recommendations for their customers,” he says, the tips of his ears turning fuchsia.

She pulls her gaze away from his to leaf through the pile of books. “Oh! Georgette!” she exclaims as she picks up a copy of Venetia by Georgette Heyer. “It all makes sense now. You named your cat after Georgette Heyer.”

His cheeks turn the same shade as his ears. “Well, I told you before, she’s not really my cat…” Although she remembers him also saying he bought not-his-cat the fancy kind of cat food. And she has never seen a cat look quite as at home as Georgette does in the basket in the middle of the cat-themed window.

“I’ll take all of them,” she says, sliding the books across the counter. Alfie’s eyebrows rise, and he rubs his jaw.

“I didn’t mean you had to buy all of them, they were just some suggestions.”

“Hey, aren’t you running a business here?” she teases. But his face immediately drops.

“Don’t forget your April book too,” he says somewhat stiffly, passing her the brown paper parcel along with her bag of books. As Tilly reaches out for them, his fingers nudge against hers, and her breath catches, her eyes meeting his.

She had almost forgotten. The book had been at the front of her mind when she headed to the shop, but then she’d seen the window full of cat books, and somehow it had been pushed to the back. She pulls her hand away quickly, running it over the brown paper.

“Any guesses what it might be this month?” he asks.

“No idea.” She thinks back to the satisfaction of leaving the office for the last time, stepping out into a golden morning with no plans and no agenda, just the future stretching out in front of her like a blank page. “But something out of my comfort zone might be good. I think I feel ready for a reading adventure.”



* * *



—

When she arrives home later and unwraps her parcel, a slim volume falls out, the cover showing a black-and-white photograph of a man sitting outside a café on a street that could only be Paris.

“A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway,” she says in the direction of Joe’s urn, the light making the blue ceramic shine. “Isn’t that about Hemingway’s time living in Paris?” She has heard of the book but never read it. As she flicks through the pages, a letter from Joe falls onto her lap.