The Bookshop on Autumn Lane Read Online Free PDF

inspected me from my wet head to my boots. A silly grin split his face. I wasn’t used to that kind of unveiled male appreciation. It made me wonder if he had sustained a concussion. Either way, I would take the compliment. I selfishly basked in the light of appreciation.
    I shook my hips, half joking. “Like what you see?”
    His face turned red and he whipped the glasses off again. “No. No!”
    â€œYou don’t like what you see?”
    â€œNo. I mean, yes. I’m not really looking at anything at all. Not that you’re nothing, that is. I . . .” His voice trailed off.
    I extended my arm his way. “Let me help you up.”
    The knot of towel at my armpit slipped and he shook his head. “It’s all good. Just go back to holding the tow—” He rolled over.
    â€œI thought you weren’t looking?”
    â€œI’m not. Now.” He came up on his hands and knees and tested the sturdiness of the ground before he unfolded his long body. When he finished, I had to tilt my head back. He stood on several layers of books, but I suspected that he was tall even without his pedestal. He was lean too. He held a book in his hand.
    â€œAre you trash picking?”
    â€œOf course not. I saw these books and I was—” He stopped himself and sighed. “I must seem like a blithering idiot. I sincerely apologize for interrupting your—uh—bathing.”
    I knew his type. Even though his clothes were out of alignment from his fall, his khaki pants, blue oxford shirt, and brown sweater vest made him look like he had just come from the library. His broad shoulders almost shattered the image. But his nervousness sealed it.
    â€œNo need to apologize or act all formal on this side of the pond,” I said, referring to his British accent. “Especially when I’m the one who just threw a hardcover on your head.”
    He placed his glasses back on his face. “Well, it was my fault too. I forgot to check the weather report for falling books.” Humor? Interesting. He was younger than I thought. Square jaw, long nose. Close-cropped amber hair with hints of sunshine. Early thirties, maybe.
    â€œHey, were you standing in the front of the bookstore earlier? I think I saw you across the street.”
    He stepped off the stack of books. He was still tall. “Could be. I was . . . walking by a while ago.”
    The dog whined loudly from the open back door. “That’s the dog’s way of protecting me,” I explained. Just to prove his viciousness, the old collie wagged his tail and came to investigate.
    â€œI’m shaking in my shoes.” He put a hand on the dog’s back.
    Something caught his eye. He put his glasses on and reached for the magazine under my feet. A soggy Richard Nixon smiled at us from the front cover of the Saturday Evening Post . “This issue is fairly rare, I believe.” He yanked on the pages. I stepped back and he shook the magazine. Water dripped off of Dick’s five-o’clock shadow.
    I hung my head upside down and shook my hair. “Didn’t he have some kind of problem with water? Water . . . water . . .”
    â€œWatergate?”
    â€œThat’s it!” I said, flipping my head back. My hair caught the breeze.
    A muscle in his jaw flickered. That same look of appreciation that had put me in a tizzy earlier passed over his face. His smile could have come with a martini—stirred, not shaken.
    â€œWhy don’t you come inside and sit down for a moment? You could really be hurt.”
    He rubbed his forehead and gazed at the open door. “Well, if you insist. But how do you know I’m not using the weak excuse of a concussion as an opportunity to pinch all your worldly goods?”
    â€œBecause I’m never that lucky,” I said, laughing. He could pinch me and my worldly goods any time.
    â€œI think I’m too dizzy to get that.”
    â€œThat’s all