The Boy in the Bookshop Read online

  The Boy at the Bookshop

  The Meet Cute Series

  KATEY LOVELL

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

  Copyright © Katey Lovell 2015

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover design by Books Covered

  Katey Lovell asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International

  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

  downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

  stored in or introduced into any information storage and

  retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

  whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

  hereinafter invented, without the express

  written permission of HarperCollins.

  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © October 2015 ISBN: 9780008166410

  Version 2015-10-14

  For David and Zachary, my two favourite boys

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Meet Cute Series

  The Boy in the Bookshop

  Acknowledgements

  Coming Soon from Katey Lovell …

  Katey Lovell

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  The Meet Cute Series

  The Boy in the Bookshop

  The Boy at the Beach

  The Boy at the Bakery

  The Boy on the Bus

  The Boy with the Board

  The Boy with the Boxes

  The Boy at the BBQ

  The Boy under the Mistletoe

  The Boy and the Bridesmaid

  The Boy in the Bookshop

  He wasn’t my usual type. He didn’t have the tattoos and piercings which were guaranteed to make my heart beat that little bit faster for a start. He looked like a ‘nice boy’. In fact, I’d go as far as saying he was borderline geeky.

  He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, but for some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  I worked at Beautiful Books, a used bookstore in the town centre, every Saturday. It was the perfect job for me as I absolutely adore books; always have, ever since my Mum read me Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I was six years old. And used books were extra special, their cracked spines and dog-eared pages signs that they’d been loved, the musty scent clinging to their pages, the smell of times gone by.

  There’s nothing quite like picking up a book and wondering where it had first been bought – who by, for what purpose. Every so often I’d come across one that was inscribed, Carol Arthur, Class 5B or To dearest Anna, Happy Christmas 1968, all my love, John xx. It was as though each book had already had a life, and through Beautiful Books they were given the chance to experience a second birth, a new chapter in their existence. I felt honoured to be part of their journey.

  The boy was running his fingers along the spines of the classics. His head tilted awkwardly to one side as he read the titles, and every once in a while he’d pull a book off the shelf and read the blurb on the back or flick through the pages. I couldn’t stop staring – thankfully his back was to me so he was completely oblivious – but he looked so perfect, standing there amongst all the books.

  His black hair, glossy and shiny, was brushed away from his face and his skin was the exact same shade as my take out Starbucks coffee, a rich cappuccino. As he’d entered the shop he’d grinned, almost goofily, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He had a friendly aura. He just oozed nice.

  Thick, dark-framed glasses dominated his face and he wore an oversized knitted jumper which hung loosely from his skinny frame. The jumper was at odds with the skin tight jeans which clung to his thighs. I guess he would be classed as ‘geek chic’. He looked quirky. Individual.

  I wondered if he was perhaps a literature student at the University, we often had them in here seeking out their set texts, looking to save any pennies they could to go towards their beer fund.

  I tried to refocus on my Margaret Atwood book, yet found myself reading the same paragraph three times. I couldn’t concentrate whilst he was stood there looking like that. He was too distracting, and that was saying something – it took a lot to distract me from my books.

  Two customers came to pay. I rang up their purchases on the temperamental old till, placed their books into the shops trademark buttery-yellow paper bags and made just enough small talk to be polite, but all the while I was looking at him. I couldn’t decide what it was that was so captivating, he just held my attention for some reason. I was amazed he couldn’t feel my eyes boring into the back of him.

  He had a worn canvas rucksack slung over his shoulder, it wasn’t fashionable in the slightest, but somehow he managed to carry it off. He didn’t look scruffy, he looked cute. I had an urge to hug him. He looked like a snuggly bear, maybe down to that chunky knit sweater, but whatever it was I wanted to be closer to him.

  Right, stop it now. Concentrate on this book. It’s a great book. It’s won awards and everything. And up until ten minutes ago you were engrossed. What changed?

  You know what changed, answered the voice in my head, he’s here. And he’s taking up every corner of your brain so there isn’t the space to think about anything else.

  I glanced up stealthily, determined to steal another glimpse of his beauty, and in that instant he turned, a pile of books in his arms which made him all the more appealing. I mean, there’s only one thing more attractive than a gorgeous boy, and that’s a gorgeous boy with books.

  He walked up to the counter, the original mahogany surface the only thing between us. The array of coloured covers spilled across my work surface, a mixture of traditional hardbacks and budget paperbacks – novels by Bronte, Austen, Dickens, Hemingway; the poetry of Yeats, Keats, Heaney, Duffy; plays by Stoppard and Miller – and for a brief moment I forgot how to breathe. I hadn’t seen his eyes properly before, but now he was in such close proximity I felt I was drowning in them. They were the darkest brown possible, teetering on the verge of black. It sounded a cliché, but I knew he was trustworthy as I looked into those eyes. They were the eyes of an honest man.

  I’d been hurt so many times before that I’d sworn off guys. I’d promised myself I’d build up a wall, protect myself from being hurt again. But I could feel myself falling now, and I liked it. Funny how sometimes your heart lurches without warning, your stomach churns and your palms go clammy. How you forget to speak coherently.

  ‘Do you know if you’ve a copy of A Room with a View in stock? I’ve had a look on
the shelves, but couldn’t see it. I’m just getting my books for this semester,’ he added, waving what I assumed was a list of set texts in my general direction. So he was a student. Brains as well as beauty.

  ‘I don’t know offhand, but I can look on the system for you,’ I replied, pulling up a spreadsheet on the laptop in front of me. It wasn’t the most high tech system – every evening the last hour was spent updating it manually – but it worked. I tapped in the title, squinting my eyes as I looked at the results. ‘There should be a copy, I’ll come and look with you.’ And then I was right next to him, just the tiniest gap between us. I could feel the static from his jumper and it thrilled me. I’d never been a believer in love at first sight before, but he was swaying me.

  ‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ I said, desperate to make conversation. ‘I’m Jade, one of the Saturday girls.’

  ‘Marwan,’ he replied, those dark eyes fixing on me. How did they seem to twinkle? ‘I’ve just started at the Uni, I’m a Literature student. Always been bookish. I know I sound like a nerd, but I can’t wait to get stuck into the set texts.’ I could see the passion, a fire light up inside him as he spoke about literature. It made me warm inside knowing we shared a common interest.

  ‘Hmmm, I can’t see it here where it should be, I wonder if it’s been shelved in the wrong place. Let’s look and see if it’s been put under the first initial, or even by the title. Sometimes books end up in the funniest places.’ I was bumbling along here, aware that I was talking far too fast.

  People assumed I was a confident person. I don’t know if that was because of how I looked – the fuchsia pink hair, the piercings which followed the path around the edge of my ears (and through my nose, and eyebrow, and lip), the tattoo of small black stars that ran up my right arm. It was rare for anyone to really look at me and understand me, to look beyond the colour and flare to the person within. Because the person within was shy. Quiet. Nervous. Worried about how she was perceived by others. The Jade they saw was brash, borderline scary even. But she didn’t really exist, except in their imaginations.

  I found the book under ‘A’ – obviously shelved by title instead of author by someone who had browsed the shop, or a tired member of staff after a particularly long day. Its dark green spine had thin white cracks snaking down it, and the pages were yellowed with age.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Marwan said, beaming. ‘These were going to cost a fortune to buy new, plus I love old books. I like to imagine who they might have belonged to, if they were read on a train, or a beach, or in front of a roaring log fire…’ A faraway look passed over his face, before he physically shook himself out of his daydream.

  He reached up and touched his hair, running his hand through it, and I could hardly breathe. I was the Jane to his Mr Rochester. I suddenly understood what it meant to be totally under the spell of someone. I wasn’t prepared for it; I’d tried so bloody hard to block myself off from feelings like these. From feeling vulnerable. But Marwan (and wasn’t that the most perfect name? So exotic and unusual)…something about him affected me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he blushed, embarrassed. ‘When I talk about books I get a bit overenthusiastic. I’ve waited three years to start this course so it’s been a long time coming.’

  ‘Oh?’ I questioned, genuinely interested. ‘Did you have to do resits to get the grades you needed?’ He shook his head; his shiny hair looking like it was speckled with glitter under the lights.

  ‘My mum was ill,’ he answered simply, pulling distractedly at the sleeve of his jumper, ‘I couldn’t leave home when my family needed me.’ He smiled as though it was nothing, yet I thought it was everything. To put his dreams on hold to look after his family – not many boys would do that. ‘My sisters are only eight and ten,’ he continued, ‘and my dad works long hours. He owns a restaurant. So I helped out where I could-taking the girls to school, waiting tables for my dad, running the house – little things really.’

  ‘They don’t sound like little things to me,’ I smiled. I was in awe of him. He was so gentle, thoughtful, mature. So different to other boys.

  He pulled once more at the sleeves of his jumper, burying his hands in the cuffs and in that moment I could envisage how he must have looked when he was young. The jumper smothered him.

  ‘Anyone would do it,’ he replied nonchalantly.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ I insisted. ‘Most people are too selfish. I really admire you.’

  And I did. Not because he was so strikingly handsome, although he undoubtedly was. But because he loved books, and his family, and because he didn’t realise just how extraordinary he was.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied, a shy smile creeping over his face. ‘I know this is a bit forward, but… would you like to come for a coffee with me sometime? I don’t know where’s good around here, but…I feel like we – we have some kind of connection. Does that sound strange?’

  I shook my head in response. From anyone else it would have sounded cheesy or just plain weird. But coming from him, it didn’t at all. Because I felt the same.

  ‘It doesn’t sound strange,’ I said, a warm rush flowing through my body. ‘I’d love that.’ As I bagged up his books I recited my phone number to him and whilst he keyed the digits into his phone, the counter between us no longer mattered. It almost felt as though it wasn’t there at all.

  Acknowledgements

  With huge thanks to all the authors, bloggers and readers out there who encouraged me to keep writing. Special ‘thank you’s go to Lorraine Wilson and Rebecca Raisin for reading first drafts of many a random project for me, and to Emylia Hall, Brigid Coady, Charlotte Phillips, Philippa Ashley and Kat French for cheerleading me on with encouraging messages and emails right from the start. Books are magic – and we’re making them! How brilliantly awesome is that?!

  Coming Soon from Katey Lovell …

  Tap the cover to pre-order now.

  Katey Lovell

  I grew up in South Wales and now live in Sheffield with my husband David, son Zachary and our friendly moggie Clarence. If I’m not writing, I’ll most likely be found with my nose in a book or reviewing on my blog Books with Bunny.

  http://www.kateylovell.blogspot.co.uk/

  @katey5678

  About HarperImpulse

  HarperImpulse is an exciting new range of romance fiction brought to you from the women’s fiction team at HarperCollins. Our aim is to break new talent from debut authors and import the hottest trends from the US, bringing you the very best in romance. Whether that is through short reads for your mobile phone or epic sagas that span the generations we want to proudly publish romance fiction that gets everybody talking.

  Romance readers, come and meet the team at our website www.harperimpu‌lseromance.com, our Facebook page www.facebook.com/HarperImpulse or follow us @HarperImpulse!

  Writers, we are simply looking for good stories! So, what are you waiting for? To submit, e-mail us at [email protected].

  About the Publisher

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  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

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  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

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  Katey Lovell, The Boy in the Bookshop

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