There Was No Seat for Me at the Luxury Restaurant. By Dessert, They Regretted It

too long, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened in a way that suggested the tie had been an obligation he’d made peace with rather than enjoyed.

James O’Sullivan looked up, found me in the doorway, and stood.

“Well,” he said, with a slow smile that arrived at the edges before it reached the middle. “The book dealer.”

Book dealer. Not shopgirl. Not continue reading …