Page 32 of The Undercover Bookshop

“I don’t think you would unless you were in their backyard. From the front, as you walk down the street, it doesn’t catch your eye if you’re not specifically searching for it.”

He shrugs. “While I can’t say what it’d be for, I agree with Peggy that it seems odd. I’ll mention it to Chief Wilmot and see if he has any thoughts.”

“Thank you.”

“Does it concern you?”

I am about to offer an easy answer, but I don’t. “It doesn’t, and yet I noticed it right away, and I’ve asked about it, but the conversation always shifts before I get an answer. It feels strange, and that’s bothered me more than the actual antenna.”

“It’s a detail out of place.” He smiles.

“Yes. Especially when a clear answer would be so easy.”

We talk on as the restaurant fills around us and soon our dinners arrive, a delicious sole for me and a kidney pie for Charlie. After dinner, we amble down the street, peering into shop windows.

He takes my hand as we walk. “I have a story for you.”

“Do you?”

He tells that a car crashed into Lady Marchmont’s parked Austin-Healey and left a scrape of black paint, a ubiquitous color, over her glorious red last Tuesday. He then shared that during his inquiries, he discovered that Mr. Miller’s car had a new dent exactly where it would’ve hit the Healey and, upon using a microscope, that red paint was embedded in the dent.

“You found your culprit, Detective.” I step close.

“That’s not the story.” He squeezes my hand. “You see, Mr. Miller had been in London all Tuesday and also claimed he hadn’t driven the car in weeks because the starter has been acting up. Nevertheless, to be thorough, I got in the car, moved the seat up, and turned the ignition. It started like a dream.”

“You couldn’t tell he was lying?”

Charlie shakes his head, a long, sweeping motion like a master storyteller setting up an ending. My lips twitch but I don’t interrupt again.

“He wasn’t. I was sure of it. And this is where you came in.”

“Me?”

He raises his free hand and taps his temple. “You’ve been teaching me to pay attention.”

I try to keep my delight suppressed, but a tiny corner of my mouth lifts nonetheless.

“Mr. Miller is shorter than I am. If he’d been driving, I would have had to move the seat back when I got in the car. His son, however, is at least four inches taller than I am. If he’d been in it, I’d have to do what I did.”

“Move the seat forward.”

“Once I settled on that, I chipped away at Ralph’s alibi and got a confession. Ralph was formally charged with dangerous driving and leaving the scene of an accident.”

“Well done.” I hug his arm.

Charlie stops walking and turns. “Thank you.”

“You can’t thank me for something you did.” He is inches away.

“I can thank you for being you. You’re good for me, Gemma, and for that I am extremely thankful.”

“You’re good for me too.” He’s so close now I can only whisper.

He hesitates a mere inch away. I feel myself give the most minute nod. It’s all I can do. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. And as his lips touch mine, I forget everything entirely.

In the films kisses are portrayed with dramatic music, the aural equivalent of fireworks. In real life the kisses I’ve partaken in have been sloppy affairs. This is unlike either, and it isn’t until Charlie steps back, looks at me with incredible tenderness, and lays a soft kiss on my forehead and we begin walking again that I figure out the difference.

His kiss—his perfect, soft, and lingering kiss—is a promise.