Page 53 of The Little Porto Book Club

‘What?’

‘Heard you gave that bag snatcher a run for his money.’

‘Oh.’ I grin. ‘That. It wasn’t a bag snatcher, it was my friend, Tiago. My fake boyfriend, actually.’

Chess Man shakes his head and reaches for his port bottle. I sniff the air. Nothing. ‘That’s full of water! You’re not tipsy at all.’

He wears an impish grin as he shrugs. ‘People think they can beat a drunk man at chess.’

His cackle follows me out of the gardens. Considering how successfully that went, one day, I just might question him about who he sings the old Portuguese love songs about …

Chapter Thirty-Two

I’ve been avoiding the bookstore because of the intense crowds and queues, but thirty minutes before closing time, it’s less hectic. As we step into Livraria Lello, I can confirm it’s what bibliophile dreams are made of. There’s the famous curved red staircase that draws the eye to a stained-glass ceiling above, a prism of colours that bathes the space in filmy light. Mahogany wooden bookshelves give it an almost dark academia aesthetic.

We traipse up the stairs, like we’re royalty. I gasp when I see it. ‘Oh my God, Tiago.’ I clutch his arm and feel a spark at the touch. ‘There’s a rolling ladder!’ Isn’t it every bookworm’s dream to use a rolling ladder, playing the part of Belle from Beauty and the Beast?

Tiago smiles wide. ‘Want me to push you on it?’

I go to say no, absolutely not. Those kinds of hijinks will draw too many eyes, then I pause. Why not? I’m sure I’m not the first to delight over it.

‘Can you take a photo of me standing on it, while I casually hold a book?’ Mother will be delighted at the recreation of me as Belle.

‘Sure. Let me help you up.’ I’ve got more chance of tumbling when Tiago ‘helps’ but he does mean well, so I allow his hand in mine as I stand on the beautiful ladder and take a book as if I’ve just plucked it from the shelf. Tiago snaps a photo. And then another.

‘Pretend to read it,’ he says, and takes more photos, chuckling away as if he’s having a grand old time directing a photo shoot.

‘That’s quite enough, now. Help me down, please, Tiago.’

He takes my hand like a gentleman to ease me off the ladder. As I step to the last rung, my foot catches and I fall forward into his arms. Our faces are so close the tip of my nose touches his. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

We freeze in the moment, bodies pressed together. I find myself lost in the fathomless depths of his eyes, I’m so close I can feel the erratic beat of his heart against mine. There’s a brushing of lips, due to our proximity and—

‘Can you move off the ladder?’ an impatient voice breaks in.

Tiago laughs, and drops his hands to my hips, lifting me from the ladder as if I’m as light as fairy dust. His jovial nature stops me from feeling all sorts of awkward, and so I laugh along with him while all the receptors in my body fire at how incredibly hot it is to be carried around this way. Rolling ladders, who knew?

‘We better pick up our special editions before the bookshop closes,’ Tiago says, grinning like a fool, as if he’s the happiest man who ever did live.

I’m momentarily lost for words. ‘Ah – ah, yes.’ It would seem I am now the bumbling sidekick while Tiago takes charge, clasping my hand to guide me around a group of teenagers. I’m intoxicated by the perfume of the bookshop, that heady scent of old-world charm and vanilla notes, and by the man who seems to want to be in my orbit …

We pick up our special order and spend far too long delighting over the sprayed edges. ‘I’ll never be able to read it,’ I vow. ‘It’s too pretty, too delicate.’ Outside, again, we meander towards the river, seemingly called by the lapping of the water.

Tiago cocks his head and surveys me. ‘Really? You will just let it sit on your shelf collecting dust?’

I arch a brow. ‘Collecting dust? Never! My books are incredibly well cared for, Tiago.’

His lips quirk and he gives a quick nod of his head. ‘Of course. I’d expect nothing less. Wouldn’t it be nicer to read it, though? The touch of the sprayed edges on your fingertips, every time you turn the page? You’d be reminded of visiting Livraria Lello, with its striking Neo-Gothic architecture and …’ His words peter off.

‘And?’ I probe, willing him to say it.

He fumbles in his pocket and brandishes his phone. ‘And look how beautiful you are here, Viviane.’ He swipes his screen and brings up the photo of me on the ladder, face lit up from within, eyes shiny with happiness. It’s like I’m looking at a different person, at least a different version of me. I’ve come so far since leaving the UK and all the sadness that followed me here.

‘What is it?’ Tiago says, as I hand him the phone back and we sit on a bench under a canopy of leaves that sway in the evening breeze.

‘I’ve never had a friend quite like you, Tiago.’ He scoots closer on the bench, giving me a look that implies he knows there’s more to my comment.