The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser (best life changing books .TXT) 📕

for ever. I can touch him if I want to, unwind a curl or stroke an eyebrow, put my finger into the crease between his brows.

‘You’re really staring,’ he says, and leans closer, his nose against my cheek. I close my eyes and tilt my head slightly, and feel his lips on my jaw, my throat.

Jesus.

It’s terrifying though. He’s already made me incredibly miserable, hasn’t he? Even if that was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, an error, I was still much more upset than is acceptable. What the hell am I doing?

‘Oh God,’ I say, ‘is this really stupid?’

He sits back, and we look at each other.

‘Probably,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t recommend myself to anyone.’

‘Oh, not because it’s you,’ I say, wanting to reassure him. ‘Whoever it was, would it be stupid? I think I’m broken, and I don’t want to–’

‘I understand,’ he says. ‘And I know I’m not a very good bet. I shouldn’t have come.’

He goes to get up and I put my hand on his thigh. ‘No, don’t say that. It’s not that. I’m glad you did. But I’ve been very unhappy, this week.’

‘Yes, me too,’ he says, and laughs. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been so miserable.’

‘Well, I definitely have, but it’s a surprisingly close-run thing.’

‘I’m sorry I hurt you. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you how I felt. I was afraid.’

‘Oh God.’ I laugh.

‘What?’

‘Well, you’re just fucking adorable, aren’t you,’ I say, and then we’re kissing again and it’s all quite intense. Everything pulses and throbs in a way that reminds me of other fumblings in long-ago sitting rooms.

Eventually I say, ‘Okay. Are we going to bed?’

He looks very serious in the half-light. ‘What, now? Do you want to?’

‘Yeah, probably,’ I say, a bit distracted by wondering if my bedroom’s untidy. Pretty sure I made the bed – I usually do. The sheets are clean anyway, changed on Saturday. Not that it matters; I’d be surprised if he cared much about the state of the room, or the sheets.

‘Probably?’

I laugh at his expression. ‘Never expect me to say the right thing – I hardly ever do. What I mean is’ – I get up and pull him to his feet – ‘I’d like to go to bed with you, I think, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea, or if we should. But I do want to, so I’m going to ignore all that.’

In the hall, I push open the bedroom door. It’s almost dark, the light from the window grey and fading. It’s still raining steadily.

Now we’re in here, I think I may have made a mistake. Self-conscious doesn’t begin to cover how awkward I feel. I catch sight of myself in the mirror on the dressing table and pull a face.

‘What is it?’

I gesture at the mirror. ‘I just saw my reflection. Reminding me that although I feel exactly like I did when I was nineteen, or twenty-five, on the outside, I sadly don’t look like I did then.’

‘You look pretty good to me,’ he says. ‘Those pyjamas are–’

‘They were Andrew’s,’ I say. I look down at myself, and then grin at him. ‘There, has that ruined the moment?’

‘Jesus. Not at all,’ he says. ‘I don’t care who bought them or when – it’s what’s underneath that’s piqued my interest.’

It’s pleasing when people say things like that, however hard it is to believe them.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ He has his hands in his pockets, looking at me across the bed.

‘I don’t think so.’ I don’t know what to do with my hands, or what I should be doing in general. ‘I’ve kind of forgotten how this works.’ I feel like the light’s all wrong, so I pull the curtains, and then it’s dark. Too dark? The dressing-table mirror glimmers, reflecting light from down the hallway. Edward is a dark figure, large and shadowy. God, this is difficult.

‘Candles,’ I say, ‘that’s what… Hang on.’ I rummage in the drawer of the bedside table. I’m sure there are – yes. Tealights. And matches. I light one with an unsteady hand. The softer light makes me feel better.

Edward takes his jumper off and lays it over the chair. We stand and look at each other. Taking your clothes off in front of someone for the first time is always difficult. The idea that shortly he’ll be naked, in my bed, is hard to imagine. Shit. It’s exciting but also scary.

I climb into bed. Still in my pyjamas, which are sort of protective. I’ve got my socks on as well – he’ll need to be keen.

‘Candles are good,’ he says. He begins to unbutton his shirt and I pull the duvet up to my nose so he can’t see me grinning.

‘Flattering,’ I agree. ‘Which is a bonus. Um. This is weird. Is it weird? And worse than weird, is it horribly predictable?’

He laughs. ‘Some people will think so.’

‘I hate being predictable.’

He slides into bed and leans to kiss me. I don’t think I could ever get bored of kissing him. I suppose I’d forgotten what it’s like, kissing someone. Kissing someone when it’s all still new and thrilling.

He pulls away eventually and we stare at each other. It’s different, knowing you can look at someone as much as you like, none of that careful politeness of the outside world. When you’re this close, you can really see someone’s skin, and the lines on their face, and their stubble. He doesn’t shave every day, and his beard grows through much greyer than his hair. The skin on his cheeks above the stubble is smooth, and he’s still tanned from the summer. He always looks quite rumpled, uninterested in his appearance to some degree. I imagine he scrubs up well though, because he’s got good bones. And those eyebrows. I put my finger on one, following the way the hair grows, touching the lines between them, his frown lines.

‘There were lots of men in paintings at Hollinshaw