‘No wonder we’re quite happy here,’ he mused, tapping his fingers on the counter.

Jacob and I had been working together for a few weeks and it all felt very easy. We just got on, we loved discussing the books we were reading. And then little things started to happen: the odd touch of the hand, brushing past each other between the bookshelves. And then more personal – we began to leave notes for each other behind the till on books we thought each other would like. This went on for weeks, with the notes getting more and more intimate. Then one morning, Jacob came in, dumped his bag behind the till and looked at me suspiciously.

‘Olive – really random question. There’s this Facebook page called “Hot Dudes Reading”, where people submit pictures, I’m guessing, of err … men reading …’ he said.

‘Oh, right?’ I replied, innocently.

‘And my mate Steve has just texted me to say that I’m on there.’

Oh God. I went all hot. Full-on sweaty back. Bea had recently pointed out that I spoke about Jacob non-stop and that I must fancy him. We’d got really drunk and posted a pic of Jacob on ‘Hot Dudes Reading’ as a joke. I’d forgotten all about it, until now.

It was technically Bea’s idea. She’d posted it. But how did I explain that?

‘Really!’ I laughed, while rearranging a table display.

‘Yeah … weirdly it’s a photo from the other night when we were packing away some stock and I was reading something quickly behind the till … Did you take this photo?’

‘Erm, let’s see.’ I grabbed his phone, wondering if I could just delete the whole thing.

‘Yeah … I suppose I took that,’ I said, anxiously.

‘Did you … submit it? To the page?’

I paused and considered lying. ‘Yeah, I did. Sorry. I was in the pub with my friend and we were just being silly. Bit of a laugh really,’ I said, bracing myself. He would have every right to think that was very weird.

Instead, his face softened, and he was smiling at me. ‘So … does that mean … you think I’m hot then?’

I turned bright red. My cheeks were like miniature hobs.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Um, I guess I do.’

Admittedly it was a very strange way of us ‘breaking the ice’. But, from then on, we were inseparable. Every Saturday, after our shift at the bookshop, we’d go for dinner or drinks, or a walk around the park. Then we started seeing each other in the week. Then we met each other’s colleagues. Then we were introduced to the family. We were fully joined at the hip. He was my person, and I knew I wanted to hang up his Y-fronts on the washing line when we were both old and wrinkly.

Our favourite thing was to get a roast dinner together on a Sunday afternoon around 4 p.m., and drink red wine and eat crispy potatoes until it was dark outside and we could roll home together, hand in hand. One weekend we went to our favourite pub in Islington, The Duck’s Arms, with pattern-carpeted floor and grand fireplaces and a bright green bar. We sat at our usual table by the window, and it was starting to get dark outside already. We were both wearing oversized cosy jumpers.