“Miss Bennett.” Mr. Evans’s voice cut into the stone-walled dungeon cell and slammed her right back in the middle of the bookshop.

She leapt and slapped the book closed, immediately regretting not having noted the page number first. Never in all her time at her uncle’s shop had she taken even a moment from her tasks for herself in such a way. She slowly looked at Mr. Evans, tense with guilt.

His heavy brows crawled together as he bent to study the title on the spine. “Are you reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”

She nodded. “Yes, I...” It was on the edge of her tongue to offer a justification, but she stopped herself. Nothing could excuse what she’d done. “I’m sorry.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I see you took Mr. Anderson’s recommendation.” He nodded to the book. “Carry on, Miss Bennett. I expect if it has captivated you so thoroughly, we can anticipate selling quite a few copies based on your recommendation.”

Relief eased the tension from her shoulders. “I’ll order more from Simpkin Marshalls.”

“See that you do.” He picked a bit of yellow lint from his tweed jacket. “And you may want to consider Jane Austen for your next book. Women seem to enjoy her protagonists.”

Curiosity piqued, she made a mental note to purchase one of Miss Austen’s books. Maybe Emma. Mrs. Weatherford appeared to have found it enjoyable.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve become a reader in your time here.” Mr. Evans drew his spectacles off to examine them. Without the magnifying effect of the glass, his eyes appeared rather small. “Even if you do have only one more month remaining in our agreement.”

Was there truly only one more month to go? How was it even a dismal Christmas season had passed with such swiftness?

Grace nodded, unsure of what to say, and realized belatedly he most likely couldn’t see her.

He drew out a handkerchief, wiped at a spot on the lens, then replaced the glasses on his face and blinked owlishly at her. “You haven’t become attached to Primrose Hill Books now, have you?”

The question took her aback, but not nearly as much as her immediate awareness that indeed, she had become attached.

She liked how customers could easily find their books in the newly organized store, she enjoyed the book jackets and how creative some publishers were with their designs. She even relished the dusty scent that lingered in the shop no matter how often she cleaned, and had come to appreciate Mr. Evans, dry humor and all.

Before she could formulate a reply, the bell dinged, announcing an incoming customer.

“Evans?” Mr. Pritchard’s voice chirped from the front of the shop. “Are you here?”

Mr. Evans rolled his eyes heavenward and shuffled out to greet the man who Grace could never tell was a friend or foe. “Good afternoon, Pritchard.”