Free The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story) by Rebecca Raisin Page B

no book heaving from you, Missy.”
    “That sure is a big stack of books. Are they for Tomlinson?” She giggled.
    Tomlinson was one of my best customers. We didn’t know anything about him, really, except that he went by the moniker Tomlinson and his tastes for literature were mainly erotic. I scoured the globe looking for first editions of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller novels, plus a wealth of other erotic literature that would make even the more sexually liberated person blush. But, hey, reading was reading in my book.
    “Sure is. I found a very early Kama Sutra book translated into French. I think he’ll like that, don’t you?”
    Missy sighed. “I guess so. Do you ever wonder about him? Like why he collects only erotica?”
    I shrugged, and blew my bangs out of my eyes. “Maybe he’s writing a thesis or something? Maybe it’s a lifetime investigation into what makes people tick in the bedroom. Who knows?”
    “Could be. We live in a funny old world.”
    I had lots of customers like Tomlinson. People who collected certain genres, or hard-to-find books. No matter what their proclivities, I respected them because they respected books. They prized them. And these clients always intrigued me. Since I posted the books, and they paid online, I never got to meet them. But that didn’t stop me imagining where they lived, or what they did with the books. Were they on display? Did they arrange them in alphabetical order? Or size order? Color order?
    In Tomlinson’s case, did he hide them? Were they locked away in a vault because of their worth, and their subject matter?
    I had another regular customer who wanted only books with handwritten dedications. It didn’t matter which book or what the message said, but she wanted books that had been given as gifts. I’d found two for her earlier this morning.
    Mexico on a Budget
: ‘Derek, Don’t have too much fun without me! I’ll love you always, Tina xoxox’
    Judy Blume classic,
Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret
: ‘I read this book when I was your age, I hope you cherish it, love Mom.’
    I can understand her wanting to collect books with dedications. Can you imagine what stories these little snippets tell? Especially if you weave the title of the book around their words. Why wasn’t Tina going to Mexico with Derek? Why did he give the book away? Did they stay together, or did he meet someone in Mexico? Did they trade this book for a later edition and go back to Mexico together years later?
    Did the young girl find solace in Judy Blume’s words? Why didn’t she cherish the book as her mother hoped? Was it because she was a grown woman now, and maybe kids of today considered this book old-fashioned? Would you not keep it for memory’s sake?
    So many questions, all the markings of a life so different from mine. These books told a story, and not just the one written on the black and white pages.
    I placed the last of the books in the box for Tomlinson, and taped it shut.
    “So-o-o,” Missy said, weaving her way behind the counter and perching on the stool. “Are you nervous?”
    I considered lying for a moment but then thought better of it. “Extremely.”
    She tutted. “No need to be. There was practically steam coming off you two last night. You were downright sizzling sitting there next to each other.”
    I ran a finger around the collar of my sweater. Gosh, I was literally hot under the collar just thinking of last night. “Do you think he noticed my gawping thing when he was eating his ice cream?”
    Missy threw her head back and laughed. “I don’t think so, honey. Plus, he was certainly making a show of it. The mind boggles at what a man could do with an instrument like that.”
    “Missy! Oh, my God.” I stifled laughter out of pure embarrassment. Maybe the chemistry between Ridge and me at dinner hadn’t been as subtle as I thought.
    “What? Oh, come on, we were all thinking it.”
    I groaned. “Really?”
    “Mmm-hmm. That man was making a