This Book Made Me Think of You(5)

“Matilda. Like the film?”

That should be an alarm bell, but she is too busy looking at his forearms to notice.

They climb the stairs side by side, Tilly walking and Joe practically bouncing.

“So are you on holiday,” she asks, “or…”

“I live here,” he replies, and Tilly realizes with a jolt how disappointed she would have been if he’d revealed he was a tourist. “I moved here for work. It’s a great city. I love how green it is. And all the old buildings…I can’t get over how old everything is! You Brits have no idea. Are you from London?”

“I live here but I’m not from here. I grew up in Wales.”

“I thought I heard something in your voice. It’s lovely.”

His eyes sparkle as he fixes them on her in a way that makes her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red.

“Well, I say Wales, but the border for England runs through my hometown. I grew up in Hay-on-Wye.”

“I’ve heard about that place. Isn’t every shop there a bookshop?”

“Not every shop. But yes, there are a lot of bookshops.”

“Do your family run one then? No wonder you know your way around a bookshop.”

“No, my parents are both teachers. But they do love books. My sister is called Harper after Harper Lee. And then there’s me…I guess it was inevitable that I was going to love books too.”

“What’s your favorite book? Or is that like asking a parent to choose their favorite child?”

He flashes her a grin, and Tilly finds herself grinning back at him.

“A bit. My favorite book changes all the time depending on the latest thing I’ve loved. But I think if I had to choose my favorite favorite, I’d say Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans. I was obsessed with it when I was little.”

“What did you love about it?”

Despite all the books in her bedroom growing up, Madeline was the one she always came back to, wanting to read it again and again. If she closes her eyes, she can see its distinctive cover as though recalling the face of a beloved relative.

“I think it helped that the main character, Madeline Fogg, had red hair like me. She was the only girl in her class who did, just like I always was. But aside from that, we were completely different. She lived in a boarding school in Paris, and I have still never been to Paris, despite having dreamed about it ever since reading those books. And Madeline was so feisty and brave.”

“You don’t think you’re like that?”

Tilly laughs out loud, but the expectant expression on his face makes her remember that she’s only just met him. He doesn’t know that her idea of brave is trying a book in a new genre or opting for a different brand of tea on her weekly shop.

“No, not exactly. And I definitely can’t ice-skate as well as Madeline could.”

They have reached the fiction floor by now, and, not knowing what else to say, Tilly reaches for a copy of A Man Called Ove and hands it to him. Their fingers brush as he takes it, her skin tingling at the touch. She is relieved when he examines the cover, as it gives her time to smooth down her hair, which is frizzy from the rain.

“If you enjoy it, I’d recommend The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce or Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. If you haven’t read them already, that is.”

“You really do know your books.”

“Well, I do work in publishing. Although in nonfiction right now. I edit celeb memoirs.” She says it with a roll of her eyes that belies the five interviews, grammar test, and weeks she spent preparing the presentation that secured her the job. “It’s just temporary, to get my foot on the ladder. What I really want to do is edit novels.”

“I bet you’d be great at that.”

She lets out a laugh.

“How do you know that? You’ve only just met me!”

“And you’ve already given me a ton of recommendations. You’re clearly passionate about books. If I were ever going to write a book, that’s the kind of editor I’d want. A real bookworm like you.”

Their eyes meet and Tilly feels her face flushing. He doesn’t look away. “Did you know that the Italian translation for ‘bookworm’ is ‘topo di biblioteca,’?” Tilly blurts, wishing that she could get her mouth to close before the first thing in her head comes out. But it is too late for that. “I read it in a book about idioms from around the world,” she explains. “It means ‘library mouse.’ I’ve always thought I’d rather be a mouse than a worm.”

“Library mouse,” he repeats, his eyes meeting hers and his nose wrinkling in pleasure. “I like that.” He looks at her for a beat longer, then says, “I really want to ask for your number. But there’s something you need to know about me first.”

She glances at his left hand. No ring. But maybe he is married and doesn’t wear one. Or perhaps he is into some really niche kink that is so specific he feels he has to divulge it before even going on a date.

“So, here’s the thing. I don’t read. I only came in here because it was raining. I haven’t read a book since high school and, even then, only because I had to. I can understand if someone like you isn’t at all interested in someone like me. But I’d really like to see you again.”