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“‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times’,” Iris said, pushing a book into Miles’ hands. “Best opening line ever.”
“Is that where it’s from?”
She nodded and ran her fingers across the broken spines of her favourite second-hand bookstore on Charing Cross Road.
“Ah!” She pulled a book out. “‘I write this sitting in my kitchen sink.’”
“What’s so good about a kitchen sink?” He flipped to the blurb. “Is this English? It sounds English.”
“Yes! It’s compelling, though, isn’t it?” she said. “And I love this one, ‘This is the saddest story I have ever heard.’“
“Definitely English.”
She laughed. “How about—“
“‘Call me Ishmael’,” he said, taking the tome from her hands. “Everyone knows this one. Has anyone actually read it?”
“No one.”
“Except you, I bet.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. She liked that he’d known that. But she’d spotted something. “This one is my absolute favourite.”
The pile of books in his right arm almost toppled under the crushing weight of Anna Karenina. He plucked the cover open and scanned it.
“Oh, that’s good,” he said. “I’ll read this one first, I think.”
“What about this?” she said, brandishing a book. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’”
“I don’t know about a good fortune, but I definitely understand being in want of a w—“
“It’s our third date, Miles,” she said, but she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.
“I’m just saying. It’s not my fault I’m smitten.”
She could swim in the affection in his eyes. Her heart skipped several beats and she was quite sure she was rhubarb red.
“Me too,” she admitted. She was pleased when his cheeks began to glow too.