From London With Love

16 | hate expectations

"Come on," Andrew said. "This way."

Ophelia trailed him through an archway, looking around the open space skeptically. Glass roof. Heated alfresco terraces. Ivy wrapped around wrought iron banisters.

Still no people.

"Andrew," she said slowly. "Are these places even open?"

"I know a place." He winked. "Trust me."

They stopped outside a nondescript doorway. Andrew knocked on the door twice, and Ophelia yelped as a little slat popped open. Twin green eyes peeked through the opening.

"Andrew!"

A moment later, the door flew open. Rupert stood on the threshold, dressed in a striped robe and fuzzy slippers. The air smelled vaguely of eggs and fried bacon. Rupert leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at her.

"And lovely Ophelia," he added. "What a good surprise."

Andrew cleared his throat. "Hope we're not intruding, mate."

"Not at all!" Rupert ushered them inside. "James should be round to help me open the shop in a bit; I was just about to pop the kettle on. Do you want anything?" He led them down a narrow corridor. "Tea? Water? Brandy?"

Andrew looked amused. "It's not even noon, Rupe."

"Still."

"Wait," Ophelia said. "Do you live here?" Her eyes flicked to a framed wedding picture on the wall. "You and Jess?"

Ophelia hadn't thought much about where Rupert and Jess lived, admittedly, but she had assumed it would be somewhere fancy. With large clawfoot bathtubs. And twelve cocker spaniels. And at least one turret.

Rupert nodded. "Just above the shop."

"Speaking of which," Andrew said quickly, "I was hoping to show Ophelia around the store." He paused outside a door. "She's browsing for a new book, you see."

"Ah."

"It'll only be a few minutes."

Rupert sighed, but there was fond exasperation in it. "Nobody ever says no to you, do they, Scott?" He shook his head. "Look around, then. But make it quick; I need to sweep before we open for the day."

"You're a star, Rupe."

Andrew tugged her through the door. Immediately, Ophelia froze. Two floors of books unfurled before her, a riot of oak shelves, leather armchairs, and an old grandfather clock. A narrow, winding staircase stood at the heart of it all, coiled like a strand of DNA.

"Oh, gosh," she breathed. "It's incredible."

Ophelia walked to the nearest shelf, stroking the leather-bound spines reverently. She was vaguely aware that she was salivating like a kid in a candy store, but she no longer cared. Books. So many pretty books.

"Dickens is over here," Andrew called.

Ophelia ignored him, resisting the urge to coo at the books. Pretty. So pretty. She was never leaving this place.

"Ophelia." Andrew's deep voice was right in her ear now, low and amused. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Hmm?"

"Dickens is this way."

Andrew tugged her towards a section at the back. Morning light filtered through the window, haloing his blond hair with dust motes. His white shirt was rolled up to his sleeves, and she watched as he carefully pulled a book off the shelf, opening it to the first page.