He met her eyes once more and gave a sheepish smile. “Well, I don’t know that it will help you with advertising.” He cleared his throat.

“It absolutely does.” Grace paused as she assembled the racing thoughts in her head. “Perhaps something about lighting a blackout with the enjoyment of reading or using it as a means of taking oneself away from the war with a new adventure.”

He opened his hands as if presenting her as a masterpiece. “Those are perfect. You’ll do a stellar job of this.”

“Thank you.” Heat flushed through Grace’s cheeks and chest.

He glanced at his watch. “Forgive me, but I have an appointment I must run to. I should like to continue our discussion on how I might assist you in your efforts. Would you perhaps like to meet for tea some time?”

Her cheeks were so hot now that she was sorely tempted to press her cold hands to them for a bit of relief. She nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

“Perhaps next Wednesday at noon?” he asked.

Grace was working that day, but Mr. Evans would give her the time off for tea if she asked. Or, at least, she hoped. “That would be lovely.”

“Would the café around the corner suit you, P&V’s?”

She nodded. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”

He grinned. “I look forward to it.” He gave her a little bow. “Good day, Miss Bennett.”

Giddy excitement tickled up through her, but she tamped it down long enough to see him out of the shop properly. Only when he was gone did she allow herself to press her hands first to her chest to calm her frantic heartbeat, then to her cheeks to cool their blaze.

“You can go on Wednesday,” Mr. Evans called from somewhere in the bookshop.

Grace froze, hands splayed on her cheeks, eyes wide. “I...I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

“I wasn’t intending to listen, but the two of you were rather loud.” Mr. Evans emerged from the other side of the shop, his arms folded over the chest of his dun-colored pullover.

She straightened quickly, dropping her hands.

Mr. Evans glanced at the pile of books they’d managed to accumulate. “You could do worse than the likes of George Anderson. He’s an engineer and most likely won’t be called up to war. But then again, he’s also just the sort of bloke who will volunteer regardless.”

The reminder of war was jarring. For that one brief moment, she had forgotten about it. As though the world had, for the span of a blink, been once more blissfully normal.

Except that it wasn’t. There were barrage balloons in the air outside to ward off bombers and children who had been carted to the country to live with strangers. Men were leaving and may never return, and at any moment, Hitler could drop his bombs.