He had been glowering between the two hardcovers for near on twenty minutes. I hadn't meant to stare, honest. I'd been minding my own business judging the horrifically cliché covers on display in the memoir/bibliography section when I heard him sigh two aisles over.

Naturally, I walked to the opposite end of the aisle—careful to mind the buckling floorboards that tended to squeak—and pretended to be thoroughly engrossed in the book I had been holding.

His back was to me, but I could tell he was quite tall. He wore a suit by the looks of it, the material straining slightly over his broad shoulders. His hair was a muted brown in the dim lighting of the lamps and it seemed to stand in the back, as if someone had run their hand through it repeatedly.

I peeked at him over the pages of the book and watched as he flipped the books this way and that, turning them over, and replacing them on the shelf only to start the whole process over again.

I was openly gaping at him as he held a book in each palm, lowering and raising them as if measuring their weight.

"Are you okay?" 

I clamped a hand over my mouth, surprised to hear the sound of my voice carry in the near-empty bookshop.

He must've been shocked, too, because he fumbled the books—nearly dropping one of them before managing to clasp both firmly against his chest.

"Yes, sorry! Is the store closing?"

I glanced down at my watch and then shook my head. "Not for another forty minutes."

He swallowed and then glanced down at the two books he hugged in his arms.

I hesitated before asking: "You sure you're okay?"

His eyes—the color of sea kelp—lifted to mine. "I was just..." The corner of his lips began to tug upwards, but he shook his head and glanced down once more. "I was just debating between these two books."

I crinkled my nose, regretting the words as they blurted out of me but was helpless to stop them. "Were you comparing their weights just now?"

He sighed, his shoulders dropping into a slightly more relaxed position. "I was," he admitted with the sheepish smile of a schoolboy. "It's for a gift and I don't know which to get."

I angled my head to peak at the covers and, noticing this, he held them up for me to see. They were both best sellers, one of them even recently endorsed by Oprah's book club.

"What's the occasion?" I asked.

"Gran's birthday."

"Ah, well that one there," I said pointing to the one he held in his left hand, "has some pretty heavy-handed Freudian sex scenes—"

He flinched—physically flinched—and quickly shoved the book back on the shelf.

"And that other one revolves around a young woman's quarter-life crisis brought on by the discovery of her first gray hair."

He groaned and replaced the second book—albeit more gently this time—back on the shelf as well.

I shifted on my feet. "What's Gran like?"

The corner of his mouth quivered as if threatening another smile. I took a step closer.

"She's... the matriarch of the family."

"Is she a difficult woman?"

His laugh was like a bark—loud and full-chested, but over in a burst. "Quite."

"What kinds of things does she enjoy?"

He whistled softly in thought as he leaned back against the shelves. "She enjoys a stiff whiskey pretty regularly."

Now it was my turn to laugh. I could feel him looking at me and immediately felt the heat flood my cheeks.

"She enjoys walking, too," he offered.

I cocked my head to the side. "Does she travel much?"

He hesitated. "Not like she'd like to."

"What was her name?" I muttered to myself as I walked past him down the aisle. "Sophia le something or other."

I turned down the aisle I had previously been browsing and stopped just in front of the handwritten placard reading "TRAVEL" in thick block letters. I quickly scanned the section and then stood on the tips of my toes while trying to reach for a small hardcover book with a soft, peach color spine.

I didn't hear him stop behind me, but I felt him there quite suddenly—the warmth of his chest just a few inches from me, his mouth breathing softly just above my ear, his arm hovering parallel to mine though admittedly extending much farther than mine did.

"That one?" he asked quietly as his middle finger tapped gently on the edge of the binding.

I looked up at him, only needing to tilt my chin slightly to meet his gaze. In a moment, I felt myself suddenly transported to the Northern Coast my family used to frequent when I was child—my toes gone numb from the icy water, the salty wind whipping at my face reddening my cheeks—and then in an instant I was back in Flannigan's, inexplicably holding my breath while staring up at this complete stranger.

I released my breath but failed to string together a coherent sentence, so I merely nodded at him as he tilted the book forward and slid it down into his hand with ease. I cleared my throat and took a step to my left when he attempted to hand it to me.

"Sophia le Guarde," I finally managed to say.

"Pseudonym for Sophia le Something or Other," he teased as he glanced down at the cover photo, a black and white portrait of a confident looking woman with her arms crossed standing on a Venetian looking bridge.

Unable to meet his gaze, I kept my eyes trained on hers. "It's her travel diary—well one of them anyways. She traveled frequently throughout the 1910's and 1920's. She took trains and horses, but she mostly just walked everywhere from Venice to Anatolia to even the steppes of Mongolia. The unabridged version," I continued as I nodded toward the book, "is considered quite scandalous by some. In fact, she tried to publish some of her stories during her lifetime, but no publisher would. Her writings were only just recently rediscovered by one of her descendants, and only a few have been published so far." I shrugged, feeling a softened smile spread across my lips. "Perhaps it will allow your grandmother to travel to places and times she thought long past her?"

"It's perfect."

I tore my gaze from Sophia's and took in his infectious smile. I opened my mouth to say something, but the tightness returning to my chest made it impossible to speak.

"Emma!" Peter's voice called over the stacks of books. "Emma, is that you?"

I blinked for a moment and then wet my lips with my tongue before answering. "Coming!"

I glanced at the suited man before me and flashed a bright smile. "Happy Birthday to your Gran, by the way. I'm sure she'll love whatever book you give her."

"Thank you," he said slowly, his eyes flickering between Sophia and me.

I smiled—my cheeks beginning to ache then from the overuse of the muscles—and nodded again before turning and following the sound of Peter's voice to the back of the store.

* * *

Peter Flannigan was 67 years old, and, to this day, the best date I ever had. He offered good company, delicious pasta, dry wine—and, impressively, even drier humor. He had owned Flannigan's Bookshop sine 1978 when his father sold it to him for £11. His father had founded the bookshop thirty years prior, in 1948, and with his son's help slowly expanded the business from a small hole in the wall shop to a local staple.

Peter had hired me when I was a first year at university and offered me steady employment throughout the semesters and during the holiday breaks when I didn't return home. I first began shelving inventory, then graduated to the till, and by my junior year Peter had entrusted me with the arrangement of the Recommended Reading table, a sacred table displaying only the most gifted writers.

I continued working at the store the summer after I finished university, but by the fall I had accepted a full-time job reviewing books for The Print, a somewhat-renowned monthly publication covering a wide range of issues from arts and culture to politics to celebrity news. Despite my newfound employment, Peter held no ill will towards me and I frequently returned to his shop sometimes as his customer, sometimes his friend, but most Fridays as his trusted 'In-House Connoisseur'. In this most official—yet under the table—role, he would supply me with wine and good company and I would supply him with handwritten placards recommending various titles and authors. Depending on the amount of wine poured and the lateness of the hour, the placards varied in neatness and wit.

That night, Peter had called me to the back to take a peek at his newest shipment of inventory and by the time I had finished the shop had closed and my mysterious stranger had disappeared. Peter and I spent the next hour sorting the new books (& drinking while chatting about our weeks), and I headed home promising to think of snippy one-line recommendations for our next wave of placards.

By the time I got home Trisha, my roommate, was three episodes deep into a binge of some reality TV show. I slipped onto the opposite end of the couch and slipped my feet into her lap. She sighed dramatically but didn't make an attempt to push them off.

"How was your hot date with Peter?" She asked, not taking her eyes off the TV.

"Great. I met a guy," I smiled.

She quickly glanced over at me before returning her focus to the teary-eyed testimonial on the screen. "Peter doesn't count."

I shook my head. "Not Peter."

She cocked an eyebrow. "One of Peter's friends?"

I kicked her lightly, but slid farther down into the couch. "Customer. He was looking for a book for his grandmother."

She snorted. "Of course he was."

"He was cute," I mused.

"Was he over forty?" She asked dryly.

"He looked about our age," I said as the testimonial transitioned to a catfight. "He was cute, and he laughed at my jokes."

She turned her head towards me and raised her eyebrows. "Pray tell, what was his name?"

I opened my mouth but closed it. "We didn't get that far—"

"Emma!" she groaned. "Is this guy even real?"

"Of course he's real!"

"But you didn't get your imaginary boyfriend's name?"

"He is not imaginary! Peter just called me to the back of the store and—"

She pushed my feet off of her lap and brought her knees to her chest. "We're going out next Friday night, no arguing. I got us invited to a charity event—"

"You're going to hunt for dates at a charity event?" I asked her incredulously.

"It's better than my grandfather's bookshop," she retorted.

"Peter isn't my grandfather!"

"But he could be," she said as she turned and shoved her feet into my lap.

I looped my arm around Trisha's and pulled her close, my eyes roaming around the crowded ballroom filled with well-dressed people mingling with one another. "How long do we have to stay?"

"We're here for the children, Emma."

"We're here for you to get laid," I retorted. "So how long do we have to stay?"

"As long as it takes for me to find someone to layover I guess," she shrugged playfully.

I nodded, scanning the crowd with new enthusiasm. "What about him?"

I gestured with my drink toward a well-groomed man in a fashionable three-piece suit.

Trisha wrinkled her nose. "Too pretty."

"Okay..." I said before spying a burly looking man with a ragged beard and small bun. "What about him?"

"Oh Emma, come on," she groaned just before perking up. "Oh, he's cute! And he's looking right at us!"

I took a sip from my drink as I begrudgingly followed Trisha's gaze—and immediately began to cough uncontrollably as my eyes met a pair of dark green ones staring back at me.