Chapter One
Owen
When a guy needs to get away from it all, he should go to a resort or at least a beach, but that’s not my style. Where am I right now? Not in my house in Yestermont, Wyoming. Nope, I took the advice of my only real friend, Munro MacTaggart, and flew to London. The grouchy Scot had told me, “You work too hard. Take a holiday. The UK isn’t awful.”
Yeah, Munro will never get a job at a travel agency.
So maybe he didn’t actually tell me to go to London. I took his advice and ran with it, choosing a location for my trip based on the scientific method. That means I went to a maps website, shut my eyes, and randomly dropped my finger on the computer screen. London, here I come.
An overnight flight brought me to this country. Now it’s my job to make this trip an adventure.
My first day in England hasn’t exactly been scintillating. As I stroll down the sidewalk in a quaint part of the city that lacks the hustle and bustle of the most popular areas, I find myself shuffling my feet. The thrill of seeing a new place has already faded. Now, I just feel like a divorced loser who can’t get laid. That’s exactly what I am. I need to find something better to do than meander down a street populated by kitschy shops that seem like they don’t get much traffic.
So, what am I going to do?
I stop in front of a store that sells cuckoo clocks, but that only holds my interest for a couple of minutes. Then I cross the street to check out a candy shop. Do Brits have their own kinds of sweets? They must. I wander into the shop to browse the selections and wind up eating things I’ve never heard of, which seems appropriate since I came to this country to escape from my dull existence back home. Apple drops taste better than they sound, but I skip the licorice. Yech. Never liked that stuff.
After my experience at the candy shop, I continue down the sidewalk but can’t find anything else that interests me. I pop another apple drop into my mouth, scanning the signs further down the street.
I stop, my attention glued to a particular storefront.
The sign announces that it’s Goodburn’s Literary Treasures. Now that sounds like my kind of place. I push through the door, which makes a bell ring above my head, and step into a different world, one populated with books that lie in haphazard stacks on tables or on scuffed wooden shelves along the walls. I even find what looks like an old toy box filled with children’s books. I don’t see anybody manning the desk at the back of the shop.
I pick up a well-worn copy of a Danielle Steel book and flip through the pages. Hey, I’ve read this one. Better look around for something different. Something I wouldn’t normally read. Something quintessentially British. I did come to this country to have an adventure or at least an experience that isn’t like every single day back home. While I wander aimlessly among the piles and shelves of books, I suddenly realize I have no clue what I’m trying to find. A book that represents British literature? That’s awfully vague.
“Oh, good morning. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
The sweetly sexy voice that spoke those words originated from behind me. I’ve been standing in front of the shop window considering whether to buy a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh, though I’ve never been a big fan of kids’ books. I turn to look at the woman who had spoken to me. And I freeze. The dark-haired beauty behind the counter looks gorgeous from this distance, but as I shuffle across the shop and draw closer, I realize she has beautiful eyes that shimmer with the luster of polished emeralds.
I stop at the counter and push one hand into my pants pocket, trying to seem casual and not like I want to vault over the counter to kiss her. “Good morning. This is a really cool shop.”
“Thank you. Are you American?”
“Yes, I am. And you must be British.” Could I have thought of a stupider thing to say? I’m out of practice when it comes to flirting.
The beautiful girl smiles and laughs. “Yes, I am British. What gave me away? It must have been Winnie-the-Pooh. That book was written by an Englishman.”
Oh, shit. I’m still holding that book. A grown man who’s into a kids’ book? Yeah, she probably thinks I’m a married guy looking for a quick hookup, or maybe a perv who gets off on illustrations of goofy bears.
I set the book on the counter. “Sorry, I forgot to put this down. I was looking for a story that’s quintessentially British. That probably sounds dumb.”
“Not at all. I’m happy to give you recommendations. Is this your first visit to London?”
“Yeah. I live in Wyoming, in a small town that doesn’t have any good bookshops. This place is amazing.”
She smiles again, and this time her cheeks dimple. “It’s always wonderful to hear that. I’m Poppy Goodburn, the owner of this shop.”
“Nice to meet you, Poppy. I’m Owen Metzger.”
“You must be a connoisseur of rare and forgotten books. Goodburn’s Literary Treasures specializes in those, though we also stock new titles.”
I hunch my shoulders. “Not really a connoisseur. I stumbled onto your shop and thought I’d take a look. I do love books, but I doubt you have the kind I usually, uh, read.”
Why did I hesitate when I said that? Because Poppy doesn’t seem like the type of woman who reads the genre of books I focus on—or the kind I write.
“You might be surprised,” Poppy says. “We stock many genres, and as I said, not all of them are old books. We also have rare editions.”
“Maybe I’ll do some more browsing.”
“Please do. And if I can help you in any way, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“Thanks, Poppy.”
She starts flipping through papers, probably doing some kind of bookkeeping or whatever shop owners do.
While she does her thing, I hunt around for something that might pique my interest. So far, the only thing that fits the bill is the woman behind the counter. But I’m here in London to get the full British experience, and that means I should continue my search for a quintessentially British book, though not one aimed at kids. It should be something…intellectual.
A book catches my eye, and I pick it up. Of course I was drawn to a Nora Roberts book from twenty years ago. But I don’t want Poppy to see me buying a romance novel. Still, I can’t resist flipping through the pages. Oh, damn, I read this one already too. Hardly a surprise since I’ve read all the famous authors in that genre at one time or another. I set the book down and keep hunting.
“Still can’t find anything?” Poppy calls out.
“Uh, no, I’m having trouble with that. Guess I shouldn’t have set an impossible goal for myself.”
Poppy comes out from behind the counter and roots around among the myriad books inside this shop. Finally, she raises one and grins. “I have just the thing for you, Owen.”
“Great. What is it?”
She trots over to me and holds out the book, tipping it up so I can see the cover. “The Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”
“I’ve never read that one.” I take the book and cautiously open it, afraid I might break it or something. “How old is this edition?”
“Not as old as it might seem. This version was published in two thousand and eight, but it wasn’t well taken care of.”
“What’s the story about?”
Poppy smiles, clearly loving that she gets the chance to explain it to me. And she opens up the book to show me the interior. “This edition has lovely illustrations, doesn’t it? The Idylls of the King is a retelling of the legend of King Arthur and Camelot that’s told in a series of narrative poems. It’s really quite beautiful. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Yeah, it sounds great. I love the movie musical Camelot, but I’ve never read any text versions of the story.”
She grins and leans in to whisper, “I love the musical too. Please don’t tell anyone, though. Many of my customers are avidly devoted to books and will rant and rave about film or stage versions.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
Poppy is standing so close to me, raised onto her toes with her lips an inch from my ear, that I can feel her breaths tickling my cheek. She smells good, like roses and honeysuckle, and I want to turn my head toward her so I can press my lips to hers. But that would be weird. She’d probably smack my cheek hard and yell for a cop to come arrest me.
I might be slightly paranoid. My experience a couple months ago left me a little off kilter. That tends to happen when a guy gets trapped in a cabin in the remote wilderness of Wyoming while bad guys try to break in, determined to murder his friends. But I shouldn’t think about that right now. Or ever again. Forgetting isn’t easy.
At least those bad guys had been totally inept. I don’t have post-traumatic stress, but I wish I hadn’t stayed in Wyoming when Munro and Natalie fled to Scotland. I missed the big showdown at a medieval castle.
“Are you all right, Owen?”
Poppy’s question snaps me back to the present. “Yeah, sure, I’m fine. And I will definitely take that book.”
“The Idylls of the King? That’s wonderful. I’ll ring up the purchase for you.”
“Great, thanks.”
At least she’s not leaning in to whisper into my ear anymore. I’d been a split second away from kissing her.
I follow Poppy to the counter and watch her carefully wrap the book in brown paper, then slip it into a cute little white bag that has cute little twine handles. She hands me the bag.
“Enjoy the book, Owen. And please come back if you need more reading recommendations.”
“Absolutely. Thank you for your advice, Poppy.”
As I head for the door, I pass by a section of the shop I hadn’t noticed before, the section that offers a display of recent romance novels. A particular cover has grabbed my attention, and I can hardly believe what I see—because my latest book is there on the shelf. What are the odds of that happening? I go to a random little bookshop in London and stumble onto my own novel.
I shake off my surprise and head for the door but hesitate on the threshold. I glance back at Poppy, but she’s busy doing stuff behind the counter. With a sigh, I walk out of the shop and start off down the street again. Where am I going? No idea. But I know one thing. I want to see Poppy Goodburn again.
But how will she feel if she finds out I write steamy romance novels for a living?
Chapter Two
Poppy
For the past half an hour, I’ve been dropping things—pens, papers, books, even the handset of the telephone on the counter. I’ve never been so clumsy before in my entire life. The problem might stem from the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Owen Metzger. He seemed like a lovely man, and I’m not referring to his good looks, though he definitely is quite attractive. Owen’s eyes are such a deep blue color that they remind me of lapis lazuli stones. The ancient Egyptians adored lapis and used it often in jewelry.
But Owen’s eyes are far more beautiful than stones.
A thunk snaps me out of my daydreaming.
I glance around but can’t see what I’ve dropped this time. Then I go around to the other side of the sales counter and see it. The paperweight I use to keep receipts from flying away has tumbled to the floor. I snatch it up and return to my side of the counter.
Stop thinking about Owen, you idiot, or you’ll never get any work done.
I doubt I will ever see the man again, which means this flutter in my belly and my distracted state will both fade away eventually. What are the odds Owen would ever return to my shop? He’s a tourist, so he will go home soon.
At last, I manage to banish thoughts of Owen and focus on opening the box of new arrivals. For my shop, “new arrival” has multiple meanings since I also receive used books in my shipments. It’s simply that I haven’t carried those titles before, which makes them new arrivals. I do carry actual new books, but a small shop like mine can’t compete with the big chains. That’s why I focus on hard-to-find editions.
While I’m cutting the box open, my mobile rings.
I grab it and say hello, cradling the mobile to my ear by hunching my shoulder.
“Hello, Poppy, how are you today?”
“Dominic?” I would recognize my cousin’s voice if he’d only spoken the word hello.
“Yes, it’s me, pet. I hope you’re not working too hard again.”
“Did you call strictly to imply I’m a workaholic?”
He chuckles. “I’m not implying anything. You are a workaholic, so I don’t need to state the obvious.”
Maybe I do work too hard, but that’s no one’s business but my own.
“You should take a day off now and then, Poppy.”
I sigh and give up on pulling books out of the box. Dominic must want something or else he wouldn’t have rung me. But he will force me to chat to him before he’ll get round to the thing he wants. “How are you and Chelsea settling in at your new house?”
“Very well. Now we just need to help her mum and dad find a place of their own.”
Rubbing my neck, I lean my hip against the counter. “Will you all be living near the school?”
“In the village. The school is two miles away. You would know that if you’d come to visit us and let me show you Plitherington Girls’ Academy.”
“Why do I need to see that? I don’t have any children.”
“Not yet,” he says in a sneaky tone. “Who knows what might happen in the future?”
Oh, bugger. I think I know what Dom wants. “No meddling in my life. Understood?”
“You had no problem with my mates meddling in my life.”
“I wasn’t there for most of that. Please do not try to push men in my direction because I’m simply too busy to date. I don’t care about that rubbish, anyway.”
He clucks his tongue. “Don’t get shirty with me. My wife worries about your happiness, and I care about hers. This whole scheme was not my idea, so please don’t be angry when you find out.”
“Find out what?” Every hair on my body has gone stiff, and gooseflesh pebbles my skin. Why? Because I know what Dominic is trying to tell me. “No, no, absolutely not.”
“What are you saying no to?”
“I don’t have time to become the next target of the American Wives Club. And I don’t want to date. I’ve told you that already. My shop is the main focus of my life.”
Perhaps that does sound a touch pathetic. But starting a business is hard work that requires long hours. Dating is at the bottom of my list of priorities.
Owen’s face flashes in my mind. His lovely smile. Those beautiful eyes. His cheerful demeanor.
“Still there, Pops?” Dominic asks.
“Yes, of course, I’m here. Sorry. And I’ve asked you many times not to call me Pops. It makes me sound like an elderly man.”
“Point taken. But habits are hard to break.” He falls silent for a moment, then sighs. “No more talk of dating or meddling, for now. But please come to dinner at ours. Chelsea would love to see you.”
“Yes, I’ll come. Just tell me when.”
“Tonight. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
We say goodbye, and I go back to unboxing books. Maybe I do occasionally think of Owen, but that’s nonsense. I spoke to the man for five minutes, ten at most, which means he should not still be in my thoughts. To distract myself from thinking about him, I decide that instead, I will mentally prepare myself for whatever meddling my cousin and his mates might dream up for me. I’m not the sort who gets easily upset. But the idea of other people poking their noses into my life for the sole purpose of pushing me into the arms of a man they selected… It makes me want to hide in the storage closet.
I finish putting out the new stock, then go home to change into casual clothes for dinner at Dominic and Chelsea’s house. The drive there is relaxing and free of blaring horns or loud vehicles. The further I get away from the city, the quieter everything around me becomes. I love London, but I’d grown up in the countryside, so I feel most at home in the counties.
When I arrive at Dominic and Chelsea’s house, I’ve barely gotten out of the car before my cousin and his wife rush out to greet me. They both give me boisterous hugs as if they haven’t seen me in ages.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Chelsea tells me once she finally stops trying to hug me to death. “Come in and see how we’ve decorated the place.”
“What took you so long?” Dominic asks. “We’ve been virtually begging you to come see our house, but you kept brushing us off.”
“No, I didn’t brush anyone off. I’ve been busy, that’s all.”
They seem to accept my statement, since they lead me into the house instead of continuing the inquisition. I adore Dom and Chelsea, but I have a feeling dinner will involve plenty of not-so-subtle comments about how I need a boyfriend. Once we’ve gone inside, I see Chelsea’s mum and dad already sitting at the dining room table. Hugh and Avery Parrish are here too. I know Dom and Hugh have become good friends, but I can’t imagine why Lord and Lady Sommerleigh would drive all the way out here on short notice. Well, maybe they had all planned this dinner party in advance but no one informed me until today.
Of course, the more likely scenario is that Dominic rang Hugh and told him how awful it is that I don’t have a man in my life. Chelsea and Avery are both members of the American Wives Club, which includes all the American women I know who married British men and became friends. The club began in Scotland and spread into England, though technically, the version here is called the British Branch of the American Wives Club. It’s bloody confusing—and bloody annoying.
The meal Dominic and Chelsea cooked for us is delicious. But dinner includes more than good food. It’s also an excuse to interrogate me about my personal life in a polite manner, at first, but things become more overt during dessert.
Chelsea, who sits beside me, pats my hand. “We’re so glad you came tonight. And we hope you won’t be offended by our surprise.”
My stomach seems to have dropped straight through the floor and into the center of the earth. “What surprise?”
A knock at the front door spurs Dom to jump up and hurry over there. When he pulls the door open, I can’t see the visitor yet. But Dominic grins and slaps the visitor’s arm. “Come in, Julian. You’re just in time for drinks in the sitting room.”
Dom leads the guest toward that room and waves for the rest of us to follow them. The sitting room isn’t large, but it has just enough chairs for all of us. Naturally, Dominic urges the newcomer to sit on the love seat beside me.
“This is Julian Parry,” Dom says. “He teaches biology at Plitherington. Julian, meet my cousin Poppy. She owns a bookshop in Croydon.”
“Brilliant,” Julian says as he turns toward me. “I love books.”
Dominic set me up with a coworker from his school, without my permission, without even warning me about his plan. This might be the most humiliating moment of my life. I’ve never been on a blind date before, and I don’t know what to say to poor Julian, who seems to be doing his best. Was he blindsided as well?
“I imagine you’ve read a lot about biology,” I say. “That sounds interesting.”
No, it doesn’t really. But I’m trying very hard not to embarrass myself or Julian.
He begins to tell me all about his job at Plitherington, including detailed descriptions of the textbooks he uses in his classes. He clearly loves biology, but I never wanted to know the minute details of how viruses and bacteria get into the bloodstream and cause illness. Julian doesn’t give me a chance to ask questions. All I can do is nod and smile.
I shouldn’t have said his job sounded interesting. It’s dead boring.
Dominic is wincing. Chelsea has her teeth clamped down on her lips, while Hugh and Avery keep exchanging awkward glances. Chelsea’s parents gaze out the window with pinched expressions.
When my “date” takes a moment to drink some wine, Dominic desperately tries to steer the conversation in another direction. “Poppy, I’m sure Julian would love to hear about your shop.”
“Oh, yes,” Chelsea agrees. “It’s the cutest little bookshop in Croydon, or in the whole of London, I’d say. Why don’t you tell him about it, Poppy?”
Though it’s the last thing I want to do, I turn to Julian and explain. “My shop specializes in rare and used books as well as new ones, everything from Danielle Steel to Alfred, Lord Tennyson. What sort do you like to read?”
“My favorite right now is the latest edition of A-Level Biology.”
And he dives back into a monologue about that topic.
Bugger me. I’d assumed he would talk about the sorts of books that can be found in a shop, not in a classroom. I should have been more specific.
Once the wine runs out, Julian announces that he’s too knackered to stay any longer, and he apologizes for leaving me so soon. I smile and tell him how nice it was to meet him. But in my mind, I’m screaming, “Leave, you sodding bore!” If only he could hear me, Julian wouldn’t want to see me again.
He kisses my hand. “May I ring you sometime?”
“Um, well, my mobile is broken. I need to buy a new one.” Yes, I am a horrible liar.
Dominic virtually shoves Julian out the door. But since he works with the bloke, Dom walks Julian to his car and waves as his coworker drives away.
Thank goodness that ordeal is over.
Chelsea, Dominic, Hugh, and Avery follow me out to my car. Each of them wears a sheepish expression. I climb into the driver’s seat and roll down the window so I can speak to them.
“Don’t you lot ever, ever, ever do that to me again.”
