Page 19 of Love Walked In

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mari

Day after day, my lungs got better, until a week after the trip to see Tommy I could walk for half an hour around Bloomsbury and not need to sit on a park bench halfway through.

Leo’s and my working relationship was even healthier, too.

WhatsApp messages and spreadsheet edits zipped back and forth between our screens, and we threw ideas around as we organized shelves and sold books.

We’d started to plot the rest of the lineup on the train back to London, and a week later, we had the framework of a festival.

Seven events, each lasting forty-five minutes.

The first event at eleven, featuring two YA romance writers, one contemporary and one historical, who had wholeheartedly agreed to join in when I’d slid into their DMs on Instagram.

Tommy would be our headliner at five, swapping stories with an up-and-coming British-Nigerian thriller writer named Folarin Adegoke.

Then there were all the logistical puzzle pieces that went into organizing a book festival.

Basic things like enough chairs for people to sit on, a sound system so our authors wouldn’t have to yell.

Any book festival worth its salt needed coffee and tea, but there was no way we were going to set up an entire café from scratch in the time we had.

With Catriona’s help, I’d worked out buying a few used drip coffee machines on Facebook Marketplace and making a setup with compostable cups and thermoses.

But finding all the stuff that made a festival was easy.

Getting people in the door? That was going to be a whole new ballgame.

There was no way we could rely just on word of mouth—customers were still trickling in instead of flowing like we needed.

We had to have an up-to-date website, an online store for selling tickets, and definitely a social media presence to reach the broadest possible audience.

But when I wasn’t contemplating the problem, I caught myself contemplating Leo.

How elegant his long hands were when they picked up books and turned the pages. How his eyes were the color of a glass of bourbon in candlelight, and how they widened a little when he asked Sayeeda and Neil what they thought of the current cookbook selection.

I also thought about how they closed in pleasure when he sipped his morning coffee, but that thought got smacked down faster than a mosquito.

Most of all, I thought about how he wore the same outfit every day, black dress pants and black cotton shirt buttoned to the very top button, and a black wool sweater over them when the bookstore thermostat was being really temperamental.

“Don’t you know there are other colors, since you’re an artist?” I asked him one day, as we were bickering over what we wanted the website to look like, because despite his muttering, Ross & Co. needed more of a brand identity than the name of the store in Times New Roman.

He blinked owlishly at me, which I guessed was fair for how suddenly I’d changed the subject. “I suppose you’re not looking for a lecture about the visible spectrum?”

I ignored his sarcasm, gesturing to his outfit. “I mean, who would it hurt if you wore charcoal gray once in a while? Or really went wild and tried navy?”

He looked down at himself for a long second, then shrugged. “It just means there’s one less thing to think about in the morning. Also, I have a black cat and she sheds.”

“Kitty!” I blurted, then slapped my hand over my mouth.

Even for me, that was a little too much enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry, I just love cats. We have a bookstore cat at Orchard House named Emperor Norton, and he’s one of my favorite things about it.

” I sighed, missing the lazy orange lump. “Cats are the best.”

Leo shook his head and smiled. “Don’t they know it. Half the time I don’t know whether I’m my cat’s favorite person or her hapless butler.”

“Can I see a picture?” I asked eagerly.

He took a battered rectangle out of his pocket, tapped and swiped, then held out a picture of silky black fur curled up asleep on top of gray sheets. “This is Mog.”

“What a perfect little panther,” I crooned. “What does Mog mean?” I asked in a more normal voice. “It sounds like a witchy name.”

Leo shrugged as he put his phone away. “It’s slang. Just means cat.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You called your cat Cat? Bonus points for creativity.”

He snorted, and when I felt the vibration, I realized how close I was sitting to him. When I inhaled, I could smell something simultaneously warm and clean, like bay leaves and spices crushed together.

“Something wrong with your nose?” Leo asked.

I blinked and finally took in his confused face. Oh my God, I’d practically been drooling on him. What was wrong with me? “Absolutely not. I was just… breathing.”

“Breathing?” he said, because I was about as believable as a politician promising world peace.

“Deeply,” I persevered. “I was sick recently, remember? My lungs need all the help they can get.”

He considered this for what felt like a century, his lips twitching, then said, “All right.”

“Moving on.” I resisted the urge to press my hands against my red cheeks. We managed to get through the conversation without any more unprofessional outbursts, but thoughts of herbs and spices and that ridiculous top button danced through my brain afterward.

An hour later, Graham ambled up to the counter. “Want to go pick up some lunch with me?” he asked.

I blinked. “I thought you brought in food?” I suspected that in his spare time Graham was an amazing cook, since he came in on his work days with a neat pile of Tupperware, and droolworthy smells came from the break room when he was getting his lunch ready.

He shrugged. “Yeah, but it’ll keep. Today I really fancy a toastie. Come out with me.”

I thought for a second about the bajillion begging emails that I still needed to write.

We wanted a historical fiction writer who didn’t write about World War II to go with the two writers on the panel who did, and a literary fiction author who wasn’t asking a speaking fee that would cost a month’s salary.

I needed to find a student coder who could take Leo’s and my sketches and designs and turn them into an actual website.

It was already the end of January, and we had nine weeks to create a festival from scratch, which was basically no time at all.

But maybe I needed to take a break to keep my morale high. I couldn’t just eat tuna fish or hummus sandwiches in front of my computer every day. “Sure, why not?”

For a moment I felt eyes on my back, but when I turned around, Leo seemed to be studying his screen intently.

Fifteen minutes later, Graham and I sat in a tiny hippie-ish café tucked behind one of the UCL hospital buildings.

He munched a massive grilled cheese sandwich packed with cheddar, red onions, and cilantro chutney, while I inhaled the steam off my lentil soup that smelled like coconut and spices, like a mini-vacation to somewhere a lot balmier than London.

We ate for a little while in appreciative silence, then Graham put his sandwich down, clearly listening to something. He hummed a little bit, then said with a smile, “I suppose today is nineties’ throwback day on 6 Music.”

“What’s this song?” I asked, tearing a chunk off a roll to dip in my soup.

His eyebrows shot up. “It’s Blur. One of their hits.” His head cocked. “You know Blur? ‘Song 2’?”

I squinted, trying to cast my brain back to listening to the radio in the car as a little kid. “Is that the woo-hoo song?”

He snorted. “Yeah, I suppose you could call it that. But this one is called ‘To the End.’ My dad was obsessed with this album, Parklife . I heard it all the time when I was a kid.”

“Sounds like you’re close to him. Your dad, I mean.” Not that I knew anything about what that would be like.

He nodded. “He was a really good dad, growing up.” He smiled shyly. “It’s a little naff to say, but honestly, he’s my best friend, especially now that I’m a grown-up.”

I let curiosity override envy. “What do you mean?”

He tented his fingers. “We did all the usual father-son things growing up. Playing football, building Lego, going to see Spurs…”

“Spurs?”

“Tottenham Hotspur. Football team. Or soccer, ” he said, twanging the last word like a banjo string.

“That’s what my accent sounds like to you? Jeez.” Then I remembered Leo’s joy list. “Wait, a football team like Arsenal?”

Graham hissed. “Yeah. They’re our big rivals.” His eyebrows went up. “Bagsy you’re a Spurs supporter.”

I laughed. “Sure, whatever you say.” I did get the warm and fuzzies that he wanted me on his team, though.”So, your dad?”

“My dad, yeah. We did all those things, but I could talk to him about anything, too.” He smiled.

“He’s not a hard man at all. I know he loves me and Dan and Tim to pieces because he’s told us so many times.

And he’d always tell me it was all right to cry when I was sad, that I shouldn’t bottle everything up.

” A little chuckle. “It could be all the poetry he reads. But enough about me. What about your dad?”

I took a deep breath. Talking about my mom with Leo made this a little bit easier. “I don’t have one.” I shook my head when his mouth opened. “I mean, I do, biologically I do. But he was a sperm donor, basically. A guy my mom slept with when she and my stepdad were on a break.”

Graham tilted his head, his eyes getting sharper. “He didn’t have a name?”

“Nope,” I said, punching the p . “My mom said she was just with him for one drunken night, then he disappeared.”

I took a long sip of my soup, seeking warmth as he chewed over my sob story. Then he leaned forward and said, voice low, “Have you ever done something like 23andMe? I mean, you’re how old now? You could look for him, if you wanted.”

“I’m turning thirty in May.” I pressed my fingers into my forehead. “My mom made me promise not to look. To think of Greg, my stepdad, as my dad. But Greg cut me off right before I graduated from college.”

Graham’s expression tightened. “Cut you off?”

I winced a little, picking at the scar tissue of this particular memory.

“He packed up all his stuff and moved away. He didn’t leave a forwarding address, and his old phone number was disconnected.

” I shrugged. “We weren’t close, to say the least. My mom died when I was nine, and he looked after me because there wasn’t anyone else.

Once I was an adult, he went to go live his own life. ”

He studied my face. “What an absolute c—” He paused, then said, “Twat. And I’m so sorry about your mum.”

I shrugged. “Thanks. I turned out OK. At least he taught me the life skills I needed. But no, I’ve never done 23andMe, or looked for my bio dad at all.

” I was going to climb out of my skin if Graham kept looking at me with puppy-dog pity eyes.

“But guess what? I’m meeting Leo to go look at some art tomorrow morning.

There’s this gallery called the Ralston he wants me to see. ”

Graham breathed out a laugh. “You’re going to a museum with Leo? Really? Isn’t that a turn-up for the books? Though you two have been a lot cozier since you went to Somerset.”

I shrugged lightly. “We just needed to communicate.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Maybe something for you to think about the next time you and Catriona start bickering over nothing?”

His cheeks turned bright red. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, you absolute shit-stirrer.”

I scoffed. “So much for being comfortable feeling your feelings.”

He folded his arms and clamped his lips like a sulky toddler. I mirrored his posture, trying to make him see how ridiculous he was being.

Finally he exhaled. “I don’t know how to fix it. She’s so bloody stubborn.”

“‘Sorry’ is usually a good way to start.”

He growled, “I have bloody apologized, a thousand fucking times.”

I rested my chin on my hand, keeping my voice innocent. “For what? Tell me exactly what you apologized for.”

Graham’s eyes darted around my face. “I apologized that it happened. That she felt bad.”

I couldn’t help myself, I cracked up. “Oh, for someone so smart, you are such a schmuck .” I kept going in response to his glare. “What about what you did?”

“I DIDN’T—” Graham saw the staring faces around us and immediately stopped yelling. He leaned across the table. “I didn’t do anything,” he whispered adamantly.

I met him in the middle. “Say it again,” I whispered back.

He stared at me like I’d grown an extra head, but repeated, “I didn’t do anything.”

I sat silently, waiting for him to notice the big fat epiphany waving its arms and jumping up and down. But his puzzled expression made it look like it wouldn’t happen today. I leaned back and smiled. “Oh well. You’ll figure it out. Back to work?”

He blinked out of whatever thought he was having and nodded. I was halfway out of my chair when he said, “Mari? How would you feel if you met your dad?”

My butt met the seat with a thunk . I swallowed hard once, twice. “I don’t know how I’d feel,” I said slowly. “I don’t need a father anymore.”

“But would you like one?”

It was like someone asking me if I wanted to take a jetpack and fly to Mars, a hypothetical that had no relationship with reality. “That’s such a weird question.”

“Come on.” He was smiling, but there was something intent in the way he looked at me, like he was really invested in my answer.

For a moment, I let myself imagine my father, the way I had as a kid after Greg put me in time-out for the umpteenth time because I’d made a noise louder than a whisper.

My dad would have my round cheeks and wide mouth.

He’d be easygoing, relaxed and quiet where Greg had always felt the need to impose himself on everything and everyone around him.

Fantasy Dad would hug me hello whenever he saw me, ask how my work was going and care about the answer.

He’d swap books with me, go running with me, but also introduce me to new things, like soccer or classical music or…

who knows, woodworking. That was a very dad kind of hobby.

“Yeah,” I finally said, my voice shaking a little. “Hypothetically, I guess I’d like to have a dad. But the chances of just running into him are, like, less than zero.”

Graham shrugged. “You might be surprised.”

As he collected our empty plates and took them to the counter, I turned over that phrase, looking for any hidden compartments. Was Graham just being optimistic? It was a conversation that made me feel like I’d walked into a dark forest with no idea where the trail would take me.