The Little Bookshop On The Seine

Cover (#u20d18931-0d80-51de-870c-a9ee9be59125)

Blurb (#u2a64f491-5811-5512-9b48-5106fa4260b9)

Praise (#ua191718a-605a-51bc-bc94-1f71ae46603a)

Book List (#ucaece935-759e-54e7-af5d-d61c7b3fd9bc)

Title Page (#u65e5ad7d-eda7-59e1-8a09-700091c83ed0)

Copyright (#u2b00e42b-10ee-5e5f-aea8-57734445aa47)

Author Bio (#uaa0c6803-532e-5c00-9e28-ea345b273549)

Dedication (#ud4ff81c1-f220-5d69-8c99-548f1f3567fd)

Chapter One (#ub282b42c-4330-563d-ad06-5fb3e94e7572)

Chapter Two (#u6bda1bba-392a-53db-85e0-b65f3c992045)

Chapter Three (#uf45053bb-e1b8-56ff-95cb-ad280e241023)

Chapter Four (#ua4d788f4-4afd-5a87-ba05-4582c072c518)

Chapter Five (#u859e262f-20eb-5d40-99e0-3c797a770312)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_9baa8077-ed5c-5626-8a20-de52ba9332f6)

October

With a heavy heart I placed the sign in the display window.

All books 50% off.

If things didn’t pick up soon, it would read Closing down sale. The thought alone was enough to make me shiver. The autumnal sky was awash with purples and smudges of orange, as I stepped outside to survey the display window from the sidewalk.

Star-shaped leaves crunched underfoot. I forced a smile. A sale wouldn’t hurt, and maybe it’d take the bookshop figures from the red into the black – which I so desperately needed. My rent had been hiked up. The owner of the building, a sharp-featured, silver-tongued, forty-something man, had put the pressure on me lately – to pay more, to declutter the shop, claiming the haphazard stacks of books were a fire risk. The additional rent stretched the budget to breaking level. Something had to change.

The phone shrilled, and a grin split my face. It could only be Ridge at this time of the morning. Even after being together almost a year his name still provoked a giggle. It suited him though, the veritable man mountain he was. I’d since met his mom, a sweet, well-spoken lady, who claimed in dulcet tones, that she chose his name well before his famous namesake in the Bold and the Beautiful. In fact, she was adamant about it, and said the TV character Ridge was no match for her son. I had to agree. Sure, they both had chiseled movie star cheekbones, and an intense gaze that made many a woman swoon, but my guy was more than just the sum of his parts – I loved him for his mind, as much as his clichéd six pack, and broody hotness. And even better, he loved me for me.

He was the hero in my own real-life love story, and due back from Canada the next day. It’d had been weeks since I’d seen him, and I ached for him in a way that made me blush.

I dashed inside, and answered the phone, breathlessly. “The Bookshop on the Corner.”

“That’s the voice I know and love,” he said in his rich, husky tone. My heart fluttered, picturing him at the end of the line, his jet-black hair and flirty blue eyes. He simply had to flick me a look loaded with suggestion, and I’d be jelly-legged and love-struck.

“What are you wearing?” he said.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I held back a laugh, eager to drag it out. So far our relationship had been more long distance than anticipated, as he flew around the world reporting on location. The stints apart left an ache in my heart, a numbness to my days. Luckily I had my books, and a sweeping romance or two helped keep the loneliness at bay.

“Tell me or I’ll be forced to Skype you and see for myself.”

Glancing down at my outfit, I grimaced: black tights, a black pencil skirt, and a pilled blue knit sweater, all as old as the hills of Ashford. Not exactly the type of answer Ridge was waiting for, or the way I wanted him to picture me, after so many weeks apart. “Those stockings you like, and…”

His voice returned with a growl. “Those stockings? With the little suspenders?”