“You do sell romance novels!” I crowed.
“What ro—” The man swung back around and then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Where did you get that?”
“Just here, on the top shelf. Ha!” I sauntered toward the till, sashaying my hips in a way I hoped made me look triumphant and powerful, as opposed to like a heavily pregnant cow. “I’d like to buy this book, please.”
The man stalked over to the counter. “It’s not for sale.”
“But you’re a bookseller. By definition, your sole purpose here is to sell books.”
“Not this one.” The man reached out, clearly waiting for me to hand it over. But some childish impulse kicked in, and I found myself hugging it tighter to my chest.
“But I want it.”
“I can ring Foyles and see if—”
“No, I wantthisone.”
“Please give it to me.”
There was a slight desperate tone in his voice—one which, in retrospect, I should probably have paid more heed to. But I was drunk on an intoxicating cocktail of anger and self-righteousness, and so I ignored him.
“If you hate romance books, then I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands.”
“Christ, just give me the damn book!”
I’m not proud of what I did next. It was silly, petty, and technically speaking, illegal. But in the heat of the moment, all I could think about was getting Elizabeth and Darcy away from this awful man and his cozy but despicable bookshop.
And so, dear reader, I thrust the copy ofPride and Prejudiceinto my bag, I turned, and I ran.
Chapter Two
“You didwhat?”
I was sitting opposite Bianca in a crowded bar on Greek Street, my face still pink from having sprinted across Soho, a glass of wine in one hand and thestolenliberated book in the other.
“I couldn’t leave it there, B. The man was a monster who would’ve ripped it up the second I left. I rescued it for the greater good!” I slammed my glass down with rather more force than intended, spilling wine over the table.
“All right, Robin Hood, calm down,” Bianca said, grinning as she topped me up. “Was he really that bad?”
“Worse! He was so patronizing, like I was some airhead schoolgirl in danger of eloping with a seven-foot hairy monster because I’d readBeauty and the Beast. I’ve never met such a sexist, self-important, prejudiced prick.”
“Let me guess: Was he old and wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches? Did he have halitosis?”
“No, that’s the worst part. He was young—early thirties, I’dsay—not remotely smelly, and objectively handsome, in an Adam-out-of-The Love Hypothesiskind of way.”
“Ohh, big hands,” Bianca said approvingly. “What a shame he was such an arse; I could see you with a sexy, brooding bookseller.”
“Ugh, I can safely promise you I wouldneverdate that man.”
“I wonder what made him hate romance novels so much?”
“My theory is abandoned by the love of his life, or else major mummy issues. Either way, I refused to leave my babies in his huge, evil hands.” I looked down at the copy ofPride and Prejudice, stroking its cover. “It’s all right, my darlings, you’re safe now. The nasty man can’t hurt you anymore.”
Bianca laughed, a wicked cackle that was one of my favorite sounds in the whole world. “He was correct about one thing, though—”
“Nothingthat man said was correct,” I muttered.
“Come on, you have to admit that romance novels have given us high expectations of what a boyfriend should be like.”