Finding Fraser(75)

The cashier was still talking, but I finally caught her eye and she replaced her hand on the receiver again.

“Thank you so much,” I said, handing her the dispenser. “Listen, I’m looking for an old book makers nearby here. Do you know of one?”

She paused, twisting her mouth in concentration. “Dunno,” she said at last. “But this here is a book sellers, no’ a book makers. Cheers, aye?”

She showed me her back and returned to her call.

“Eh, sorry, Gert. So he’s drunk, mind, and I’m right tipsy meself, and ‘e says ‘have another’, and I’m like, ‘don’t mind if I do, luv,’ and he’s like, ‘fair play to yeh’ …”

I cleared my throat.

This time she was glaring as she swung back to face me. “I’m sorry, d’ye still need summat?”

“Look, I know you sell books. That’s why I came in here. But I’m looking for a place that makes books— binds them, and so on. Like with a printing press.”

“Oh! I thought you was havin’ me on, and you were lookin’ for the bookies—them guys you make bets with, yeah?”

“No. It would be an old shop, you know, or an old collection of buildings where they bind books.”

She shrugged and chewed the end of her ponytail. “Most of the books we sell is printed in China, from wha’ I can see,” she said. “Bu’ if ye look on that shelf ower there—unner the plaid banner, see? There are books about Edinburgh neighborhoods. Historical-like. Maybe that’ll do?”

I nodded and she smiled with relief before turning back to her phone. I headed over to the shelf she’d indicated and propped my hands on my knees in the universal technique for reading spine titles on low bookshelves.

I’d just pulled one out of the shelf that looked promising: A HISTORY OF BOOK-BINDERIES IN SCOTLAND, when someone walked right into my personal space. I shuffled back to get out of the way, before looking up into the eyes of Jack Findlay.

He was carrying a book in one hand and was wearing a cardigan—and a kilt. It was a dark green and navy plaid that cut nicely over his narrow hips and down to just above the knee.

And before I knew what was happening, he’d wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.

Twice.

One on each cheek.

With the second kiss effectively right on the corner of my mouth. I found myself completely speechless.

He smelled so good—like wind and wood smoke and ink. Not even a whiff of machine oil.

“I can’t believe you came, Emma,” he said, stepping back with his hands still clutching my arms. “I am so happy to see you.”

“I was just—hunting for books,” I babbled, when I found my voice at last. “But look at you! You look great! How’s the foot?”

A strange light dawned in his eyes and he dropped his hands hurriedly and stepped back.

“Oh, of course, hunting for books, right, right. It’s a bookstore—that’s only natural. What a coincidence!”

Honestly, as an embarrassed babbler, he had me totally beat.

Finally he acknowledged my question and pointed down at his feet. He wore a heavy boot on one foot, complete with the hilt of a dagger peeking out above his wool sock. The other foot didn’t look quite as dashing.

“Still in the walking cast, as you can see. I thought it would be off by now, but it’s taken its time healin’.”

There was a long, awkward silence, where we both tried not to look right at each other and instead listened to the cashier regale her friend on exactly how drunk she had become the night before.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’d better …”

As he spoke, I suddenly caught sight of a poster on the pillar behind him with a picture of his face on it. “A reading…” I interrupted. “You are here to do a reading, then? Is your new book done already?”

He shook his head. “It’s done, or nearly, but not out yet. This is a reading for the one that came out last year.”

“The one about the dragon bones?”

He sighed and held up the book in his hand. “That’s bane, not bone. It’s not about dragon bones. It’s a Scots legend, re-imagined.”

“Um, okay.” I glanced at the poster again and then up at the clock. “Weren’t you supposed to start fifteen minutes ago?”

He flipped through his book nervously. “Ah, yeah—just waiting to see if the crowd would—ah—grow any larger. But, as it hasn’t, well … See you sometime, aye?”

His voice trailed away has he turned and walked toward the front of the large, open area behind us. I could hear the girl at the desk, still on the phone, shrieking with laughter and assuring her conversational companion that “Yeah, she really were that drunk.”