i_will_seek_for_you_there

Thursdays aren’t exactly your busy day, and you won’t see the first eager customers signalling the start of your lunch rush – as modest as it may be – for at least another hour. 

The narrow, dusty store next door had been closed for as long as Butter & Bloom has been open. You had been equal parts excited and nervous to see the new ‘Sold’ sign pop up in the newspaper-covered, cracked window. Another little addition to your row of out-of-the-way shops could help really give the place a boost, but the potential for another café or more specialised bakery opening was enough to make you start double-checking your books with the kind of unease that only a small business owner could understand. It’s left you staring out of the window for more than your fair share of sleepless nights. 

You watched the transformation with the kind of nosy curiosity that always happens in such small, tight-knit communities. Friedrich over in Blumengarten three doors down had a fiver on the new owners gutting the place and turning it into an estate agents. Over the weeks that followed, the dust-covered windows were cleaned, the cracked paint stripped away, rotting awning pulled down, and shelves that sat empty and broken for years were replaced with sturdier fare. 

You expected a grand opening – you all did. Some kind of announcement. Maybe a crowd of eager customers waiting outside on the first morning, or some self-proclaimed BookTok influencers flocking to the quaint store with its old-fashioned awning and vintage vibe. 

Instead, there had only been quiet. 

Boxes carried in. Furniture rearranged. The occasional flicker of movement behind the glass. You never really see anyone coming or going. Well, other than him; the man in the pinstripe suit and expensive shoes, with dark curls that always look like he’s run a hand through them in frustration, and a permanent scowl that suggests the world has done something to personally offend him. 

Now that you know who you’re looking for, you notice him coming and going, though nowhere near as often as you would expect. He must live in the little flat above the store, just like you do above Butter & Bloom. Still, it’s impossible to miss him; he moves with the faintest hitch in his step, a barely noticeable limp that you only caught because you are apparently the kind of person who notices things like this about strangers. Which, really, is how you end up bringing him a coffee in the first place.

A little brass bell tinkles above you as you make your way inside, two paper coffee cups in hand, and your best customer service smile in place. You’ve left it too long as it is to make a good first impression but, well, you might as well do your best to make up for it. In all honesty, you hadn’t been entirely certain that the store even was open at first.

“Hello?” 

The first thing that strikes you is the colour. Deep navy walls swallow the early morning light, while dark mahogany shelves loom above you, tall and imposing like the library of some crumbling country estate still too caught up in its own history to realise the fate that has befallen it. Brass lamps are tucked between the stacks, polished to perfection, though nowhere near enough to dispel all of the dark little corners and crevices. It smells like old paper and cedar, with the faint trace of something richer beneath it. Expensive cologne perhaps, or maybe good whisky. And, you realise, nose twitching as you barely hold back a sneeze, bleach.

The whole shop feels as if it is suspended between two opposing ideals: a second-hand bookshop where you might find a battered paperback or two for a couple of quid, and a private library tucked behind the door of a Mayfair townhouse, filled to the brim with the kind of rare first editions you wouldn’t dare breathe too heavily around, much less touch. 

You take a cautious step towards the nearest bookcase. Is that a hand-written price tag? Squinting down at it, you take a neat step back. That is far too many zeros to be within arm’s reach of your coffee.

Skirting past an armchair that looks both well-worn and completely decorative, you make your way towards the safety of the counter. There’s no sign of any other customers, or the owner himself. You place the coffees neatly down, glancing left, then right. If the layout is anything like your store, the door to the right is more likely to lead to a dinky back room and a narrow staircase upstairs, which leaves the one to the left as more space, presumably for even more bookcases.

There’s a little brass bell on the counter, the kind seen in fancy hotels from decades past. You ring it without thought, the sound loud enough in the stillness to echo – and to bring a wince to your face. Ok, that was louder than you expected.

“I’m fuckin’ comin’. Impatient bloody–” The man in the pinstripe suit cuts off abruptly as he rounds the corner, leaning heavily on a cane. You’ve been close enough to hear him speak before. The cockney accent is unexpected, but, you can’t help but think, it suits him. 

He straightens as soon as he sees you, blue eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line. “Who the fuck’re you?”

You blink. 

“That… is an interesting take on customer service,” you say, careful to keep your tone light and teasing. His expression doesn’t flicker. You take a step forward, offering your hand as you give your name. “I’m next door. Butter & Bloom? I thought I’d drop off something to drink and introduce myself. You’re welcome to come over anytime. We have a bit of an unofficial local business meetup once a month, if you’d like to join us. The next one–” 

You watch as he peers into the coffee balanced on the counter, grimacing at the bitter smell. Eyes widening, mouth hanging open, you watch as he picks it up and neatly sweeps it into – you assume – a waste paper basket behind the counter, not even bothering to give it a try. 

“Local busybody, eh? No need ta pretend ta play nice, luv. I’ll keep ta myself, an’ you lot do the same, yeah?” His smile doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. One hand slips in his trouser pocket, the other resting on the countertop. Faintly, you can hear a phone ringing. He makes no move towards it. “Was there anythin’ else?”

Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you leave your coffee where it is. The thought of trying to drink it has lost its appeal. Back straight, head held high, you force yourself to meet his gaze despite the urge to slink away. You aren’t about to be run out of here due to the offense of trying to be nice. 

“Do you have any recommendations? I was thinking of picking up some light reading. Maybe cosy crime? Or dark–”

He doesn’t even let you finish before he’s pulling a book out from beneath the dark wood countertop, then a second, the sound of them landing with twin thuds that echo throughout the room.

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov. You stare at both of them blankly. They aren’t exactly the kind of light reading you had in mind.

“Er… did you have something else?”

“No,” he says bluntly. 

“Right. I’ll just… take this one, then?” You don’t know why you say it. You don’t know why you reach for the novel – the Lermontov; you can’t quite bring yourself to pick up the Dostoevsky that looks as if it might give the Yellowpages a run for its money in both length and wit. 

You must be imagining it; it almost looks like the corner of his mouth ticks up with a sharp little smile, but by the time you’ve pulled your phone out to pay, it’s gone.

“Cash only.” He goes as far as to tap on a small sign taped to the antique register. 

Who the fuck still takes cash, you want to ask, but you know there are plenty of regulars who still prefer it to paying by card. You have a handful of them yourself, still clinging to paper money in a digital age. Not that you’re complaining; they, at least, have a habit of tipping on occasion, even if it is just a handful of spare coins they don’t want to deal with.

Maybe there was something to that money laundering rumour after all.

“Right. I’ll… be back, then,” you say awkwardly, pausing for a beat too long before you make your way towards the door. Behind you, you hear a snort. 

“You do that, luv.”

Irritation sparks as his words sink in. Hand resting on the doorknob, you turn back in time to see tattooed knuckles brushing through dark curls. “I’m not your luv. There’s no need to be such a–a”

“Arsehole?” he supplies helpfully, the smug tilt to his lips back again. You feel something in your chest snap.

“I was going to say cunt.” 

Wide blue eyes are the last thing you see before you neatly close the door behind you, the bell jangling angrily in place. Anger fuels you all the way back to the counter, as Jeanie watches you return with even wider eyes and a look dripping with the need to know what the hell happened with the guy next door.

“So… how’d it go?”

“Fucking peachy.”

So much for second chances at a first impression.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Author’s notes 

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