The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story) Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’ve-doused-myself-with-some-male-perfume-that-smells-a-little-like-cotton-candy, and spice, making me consider taking a quick nibble of his skin. This was of course highly inappropriate and a little weird.
    He ran a hand through his dark too-long hair. See, too-long? He was the epitome of a romance-novel hero. And it wasn’t a cliché, it just
was
a little too long, in that it curled around his ears in an enticing way that would make women want to tuck it behind for him. It was a ploy, and I bet he knew it. He looked around mid-thirties and had examined what women read about, and, I’d bet, copied the brief, right down to, well…his briefs. I had a twenty-second battle with my eyes, which were trying to drop their gaze to see if his underwear was the usual hero style.
    “Anyway… Mr?”
    “Ridge.”
    “Mr Ridge—”
    “No, it’s Ridge. Ridge Warner.”
    I snorted, which I tried to cover with a fake hiccough. I hated that I couldn’t control my snorts. “Your name is Ridge? Like from
The Bold and the Beautiful
?”
    “Maybe my mom was a fan of the show? Who knows?” Mirth danced around in his blue God-damn sexy hero eyes.
    “Ridge,” I managed to sputter. I couldn’t stop laughing. I just couldn’t.
    “And what’s your name?”
    Internal sigh. Could it be any plainer? “Sarah. Sarah Smith.”
    He pursed his lips. “Sounds like an alias to me. I mean, is this really a bookshop or a front for your spy business? Are you CIA?”
    “FBI, actually.” I grinned at him, before catching myself. This little exchange was fun, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe a big city reporter would be interested in me. That would only happen in a fairy tale. “So, what can I help you with, Ridge?” I was almost certain I managed to hide the lip wobble by clamping my teeth down, and looking away.
Ridge.
I had to stop thinking of his name or I’d never compose myself.
    “Have you got any Keats?”
    “A poetry man — color me surprised.”
    I was about to amble to the poetry section when he caught my arm. I tingled from his touch, but tried to mask it by whistling. Whistling? He must’ve thought I was cuckoo.
    “Also, I’d like to interview you. I’m doing a story about Ashford, the little town making waves with its specialty shops.”
    My eyebrows shot up. “A New York paper wants a story on the shops in Ashford, Connecticut? Is news that slow?” Our tiny town wouldn’t even be on the radar for ninety-nine per cent of New Yorkers.
    “Yep, seems there’s a lot going for this town. What with the Gingerbread Café, and the recent chocolate festival. The shop that sells furniture made from the wood of old boats. It’s a feel-good piece. You never know, it might just bring some tourists to your quaint little shop.”
    Quaint. I didn’t know why, but he made the word sound dusty. A little second-hand.
    “And which paper is this?”
    “
The New York Herald
.”
    Gasping, I brushed my hand along the top of a book, while I pondered.
The New York Herald
was one of the biggest newspapers in the world.
    “And you, Sarah Smith, with your suddenly successful blog…largely about romance books.” I colored. Of course, he knew about the blog, hence the romance-reader banter. And he knew my name, though pretended he didn’t. He’d researched, and then gave me textbook
lines
. And I’d fallen for it.
    “What’s the angle for the story?” I asked huffily.
    “Little town makes good, something like that. Why?” He laughed, a deep rich sound. “You seem suspicious. Is it your FBI training that makes you question everything?”
    Oh, boy. Why did he have to be so disarming, and funny?
    “I just know New Yorkers, that’s all. And more often than not, in my experience, they don’t come to small towns and heap praise on them. They stick to their huge city, with their indefatigable spirits, and try and cram as many things into one day to be able to call themselves successful. It’s like a competition to see who’s