I know, I know, that’s every author’s dream. And as much as it was a goal post I had, a box I needed to check, I didn’t realize how weird it would be until it happened. It’s like I can’t go into a bookstore now without wondering where my books are, what the placement is, if someone will recognize me and make me sign them. Or at least it was that way, until Robyn died.
I haven’t stepped foot in one since.
“You think your books are in here?” Claudio asks me as he locks our bikes up outside. Vanni is already heading inside, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Something tells me he’s heading right for the science section.
“Maybe,” I tell him as he opens the door for me, the bell jingling loudly above our heads.
“Your books are translated into Italian, so they should be,” he says.
I slip him a curious glance. “How do you know?”
“I looked you up, of course,” he says without missing a beat.
The bookstore is bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, but it still feels claustrophobic. Everything is a little haphazard, books shoved onto dark wood shelves, stacks of them taking up the corners. A couple of fans whir above us but do nothing to disperse the heat inside.
“Come,” Claudio says, placing his hand at the small of my back. I suck in my breath, trying not to lose it over the fact that he’s touching me again. In hindsight, I probably should have gotten laid before I got here because I can’t keep feeling this way every time he touches me, and he’s probably going to be doing a lot of that considering he’s Italian, and everyone here seems very touchy feely.
With his fingertips pressing against me, seeming to burn through the back of my dress, he leads me through the nooks and crannies of the store until we come to the mystery section in the back.
“They would be here, yes?” he asks, finally taking his hand away.
I let out a shaky breath and then try to focus on the shelves in front of me.
“Aye,” I say.
He goes to the shelves, his eyes skimming over them until he gets to the G section. “Found them.”
Another flash of relief goes through me. There’s nothing worse than being in a bookstore and not finding your books there. You’re always hit with the feeling that perhaps you’re not a real author after all. I know most of us suffer from imposter syndrome anyway, so it’s like a real kick in the pants, another reminder of “you suck, you’re done, it’s all over.”
Claudio starts thumbing through them. “There are only six of them … which is number one?”
Since I only know the English titles, I say, “It should be The Mystery of Princess Street.”
“Hmmm,” he muses, and I take a moment to appreciate the muscles in his back. “I don’t see anything like that.” He pulls one out and turns to hand it to me.
It’s a hardcover, which is a nice change from the mass market paperbacks we are known for in the UK and North America, and feels heavy in my hands. The cover is glossy, and the art is of a door in the snow, which tells me nothing. “Dopo Tutto Sei Arrivato Tu,” I say, reading the title. “What does that mean?”
“It means You Came After All.”
I let out a laugh. “Well, that makes no sense.”
If anything, it sounds a little dirty.
He shrugs. “I know. Sometimes our translations don’t. I’ll be right back.” He then walks away, disappearing around the corner, probably going to check on Vanni.
I examine the book, feeling the thrill of having it in my hands (I have boxes of foreign editions I haven’t unpacked yet) while being in a bookstore in the country of the translation. Yet my heart feels heavy as I stare at the title. And when I flip the book over to the back and see both Robyn’s headshot and mine, my chest swells with grief.
“This isn’t right,” I whisper to the book. “You should be here.” I shouldn’t be in Italy at all. I should be in Edinburgh, either working at my flat, or at the café down the street, or at the house Robyn shared with her fiancé Jack. We should be finishing up on edits for the thirteenth book by now, a book we were halfway through writing when she died.
But that book will never see the light of day, because I couldn’t bear to finish it on my own, even though the publisher asked me to. As a result, I had to pay back my half of the advance, which is why I’m not in the best financial situation at the moment. Meanwhile Jack, who acts as her estate, had to pay back Robyn’s half.
That’s probably why he wants nothing to do with me. Also probably why Maureen didn’t want to be my agent anymore. She got to keep her cut, of course, but I was no longer dependable if I couldn’t even finish the last book.
A presence behind me pulls my mind back into the bookstore, and before I can turn around, an arm shoots out from behind, holding a pen. Claudio is right up against my back, nearly touching me. He might as well be because I can feel the heat of his body radiating outward, and I’m immediately wrapped up in his scent. I automatically close my eyes and breathe it in. It’s subtle, but it’s sweet and warm … like almonds and sunshine.
Forget the linden blossoms, Claudio might be the best smell in the world.
“Here,” he says, his voice sounding low and rumbly, sending shockwaves right into my ear. “Sign them.”
I open my eyes and see him shaking the pen at me. I swallow thickly. “I can’t.”
He takes the pen away and steps to the side to look at me closely, putting space between us. “Why not?” he asks, his eyes searching mine, once again feeling too much and not enough.
“I made a promise not to do any book signings,” I tell him, giving him a guarded look.
He flips the pen around in his fingers while he scrutinizes me. “Who did you make that promise to? Why?”
“To Jack. That’s Robyn’s fiancé. Or … ex- fiancé. Either way, I promised I wouldn’t.”
“So you’re never allowed to sign these books?” Claudio crosses his arms across his chest, seemingly bothered by this.
“Well, more like I can’t have a physical signing. An event. She should be there, you know? And I wouldn’t want to do a signing on my own. It’s not right.”
He purses his lips, thinking, and then tries to hand me the pen again. “This is not a book signing. You are signing books. There is a difference. Please.” He nods at the book. “Sign it.”
“Why?” He’s being strangely persistent.
“Because,” he implores. “It is important. I want you to sign them, all of them, because these books are a part of you and any store is honored to have them. At the very least, sign this one and let me buy it.”
Claudio looks so damn sincere that it’s overwhelming.
“You don’t need to do that,” I tell him.
“You need to take pride in your work.”
My brows shoot up. “Who says I don’t?”
“You lack confidence.”
Now my hackles are rising. “That’s a pretty ballsy thing for you to say when you don’t know me, and you haven’t read my work.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I am a ballsy man, that is true. But I will know you, and I will read your work. And if my assumption turns out to be false, then I am happy for it.” He waves his hand at the book. “Please. Sign it.”