He was studying her with the same intense scrutiny he’d given her shop when he’d first walked in. She didn’t know why she’d told him as much as she had. Yes, she did. She so loved talking books. They’d been her passion ever since Gillie had first sat her upon her lap and turned back a cover to reveal the magic hidden within. She was rather certain, based on the warmth spreading through her cheeks, that she was blushing under his examination. “Apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to carry on so. I’m keeping you.”

“’Tis I who have been keeping you. Thank you for so graciously remaining open for me.”

“It was my pleasure.” How could it not be when he provided such a compelling view? She’d only ever seen paintings of mountains, and yet she couldn’t help but think he rivaled them in majesty. “I hope you enjoy the book as much as you did when you were a lad.”

“I’ve no doubt I will.”

She followed him to the door where he hesitated a heartbeat—as though he wished to say something more—before opening it and exiting her shop. Closing it after him, she watched as he halted to study her window display, the one with the miniature desk, before carrying on. A wistfulness, a sadness shadowed him. She wondered if he was without family, alone in the world.

Turning the lock, she was grateful for the sale. It would have been her first day without dropping a single farthing into her till, and she refused to be disheartened by the shortage of customers. She knew not everyone grew up in a family that cherished books as much as hers did, nor could a good many people afford them. Although for some years now, the publishing world had been working to make literature more affordable to the masses, which was the reason she’d been able to sell the one-volume collection of serials so inexpensively.