Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Who knew tarot could shake him up so much? After Ivy left, and closing the shop, Quinn tucked himself into bed, with only a lamp and his laptop for light. His curtains were drawn, though he noticed snow falling again from the shadows cast on the fabric. He was pleased to be in the comfort of his own apartment, in privacy, having time to unwind, something he felt like he hadn't been able to do for a little while.

Only he couldn't relax. Such is the way. He tried to sleep, but kept thinking about those three bloody cards. It prompted him to open his laptop and read up on the tarot, and the three cards in particular, trying to think of every situation possible.

His mind, however rational, couldn't help but go back to what Ivy had said. That he was meant to be with Noah, or that a bond should form between them. Matty, the devil, was in the way. But what could Quinn do about that?

Kill him and bury him in the castle.

Those intrusive thoughts did not help.

But what better way to save your shop than to have a murder scandal to distract Harold?

Stop it.

He was more confused than ever. He opened a new tab open to IMDB and found the profile of Matty.

Turns out, Matty hadn't been in much of anything.

In 2018, he starred in an independent, straight to DVD horror film, which, after further inspection, Quinn saw still hadn't been distributed or released. Then, most recently, he starred as a minor character in BBC's Casualty. And that was it.

No writing credits.

No directing or producing credits.

Going back to the results page, Quinn came across an article about the closing of his bakery in London, open for a year and a half in Camden. Photos showed a café that was exposed brick and recycled wood. It struck Quinn as one of these hipster places that appeared all over the place in 2012. The shop closed because of rising inflation, according to an old social media post.

It offered a new insight into Matty, an entrepreneur, opening a business in London of all places, and making a good go of it while he could. Quinn admired that, but the words that came from Matty's lips left a lot to be desired. If Matty was honest and down to earth about his struggles, maybe Quinn would have liked him more. This side of Matty, the real Matty that may have failed sometimes, would have endeared him to Quinn.

As Quinn flipped through the photos of the now extinct bakery, he tried to imagine the moment Noah would have walked through those double wooden doors with its peeling rustic paint. He wondered what music might have been playing, what sweet smells had wafted around the room. Did Matty serve him? Or did Matty approach him afterwards, maybe when Noah was eating a rocky road with a mug of coffee next to him? He pictured the day turning to night, the busy shop coming to a close, but Noah and Matty were still in the same spot, getting closer, under the spotlight of the old oil lamps hanging around the shop.

He couldn't think like this anymore. He could be his own worst enemy, and he needed to ignore these thoughts, this imagination of his. Until a few weeks ago, Noah hadn't known he existed. Quinn only had a crush – still only had a crush. Soon, Noah would go back to London and life would get back to normal.

Normal.

What would Quinn's normal look like when Noah left, the locals returned to their post-Christmas lives, and his shop closed for good?

Quinn closed his laptop, trying to put any thoughts of tarot out of his mind. He made his way to the kitchen, opting for a decaf tea rather than a coffee at this hour. Underneath him, his shop was prepared for the early afternoon signing of Blair Beckett. Tickets sold well, but as long as people were prepared to wait, they could get a moment with Blair. He agreed to sign as many books as he could. Quinn wondered if that meant until a hair was out of place, his wrist hurt, or he ran out of the limited stock Quinn had of that book.

Quinn knew which books would be the bestsellers in his shop. Anything LGBTQ would sell with speed, along with any queer authors, some of which Quinn advertised under his ‘queer spotlight of the month'.

Blair Beckett's book, however, rarely shifted any copies. Probably because of its age, and because it wasn't fiction. So tomorrow would be the first time since ordering the stock that Blair's book would sell out.

When he thought of what might happen after Christmas, it left him with the feeling of swallowing something sour, which then made way for a taste of sweetness, which lingered on his taste buds. He would make enough money this week to afford some time to recoup and decide on what to do next.

As he raised the mug of tea to his lips, he thought about life outside of Hay.

He'd been here all his life, and now, what would be here for him?

He couldn't open another shop. Rent was rising, and so were business rates. He wouldn't work for someone else. He valued his freedom too much. All of his profits let him live how he wanted to live and going to a lower paid job would not be workable.

He looked around his apartment, with the furniture he hand-picked and bought himself, where his plants stood lusciously green, catching the sunlight from the windows. The fear that he might not be able to afford this apartment, or in fact, have to leave it, now became real. It clung to him like a demon, threatening his very identity.

Hermione's book offered him some respite, but the money would run out quickly. With no agreed publisher and no concrete revenue, Quinn knew he couldn't rely on the money from Hermione's book forever.

So, where would he go?

What could he do?

The publisher in London. His connection. A promise that if he ever needed them, he could get in touch. Quinn didn't want to change his small-town life to one of trying to fight for your life in a city, but it might be his only option. Publishing and books: that's what he could do.

That was almost always in London.

Quinn sighed.

He was giving up, and he couldn't afford to give up.

Right now, the shop was still his.

This week could change everything. This week could make sure that he still had a place to call home, and a business that was his pride and joy.

Call it tiredness, call it the decaf tea, but Quinn created a plea on a fundraising website. Ivy's fundraiser had faltered, going out with less of a bang than a wet firework. He needed something more refined that was set up from the heart.

It was late, he knew, but he posted the link on his social media sites, personal and business, explaining the situation. He hated asking for money, but something Ivy said stuck with him, and it wasn't the tarot reading this time.

A page where people could donate to him so he might buy the shop from Harold. Well, that would be a Christmas miracle. But that was the only option he had.

He expected nothing; not a bite until morning. He knew there was a lot to raise, and in such a short amount of time. That would be hard to do. Near impossible.

Then there was a ping from his email. He looked confused, only to see a donation.

A donation for ￡100.

A donation from N. Sage.

Quinn leapt for joy. He wanted to run to the windows and shout into the night that Noah Sage was his first donation, and it was a big one. He was about to refresh his email again, to see if someone else might have donated, when a message came through on his personal Instagram.

Noah.

What are you doing up at this time?

Quinn replied.

The witching hour.

I'm a witch

Figured.

What do you mean by that?

I had a feeling you cast a spell on me.

Quinn's eyes widened. He re-read the exchange, waiting for the moment that Noah might unsend the message, but it stayed. A little green ball next to the profile photo of Noah blinked at him, telling him they were both active in the chat and online.

Quinn pictured Noah in that cosy bedroom, maybe alone, but no doubt with Matty. He wondered if Noah was waiting for him to reply. Or maybe he was already offline, and the chat hadn't refreshed.

Why are you awake?

It was a safe reply, one that wasn't flirty, one that didn't break boundaries.

Though he wanted to break everything. He did.

I do my best writing at night.

Quinn could picture him now at his oak desk, cast in a low orange glow, maybe topless, his back muscles rippling as he typed.

Thanks for the donation.

You're welcome.

Then Quinn thought of something.

How did you know to message me on this account?

It was his personal account, and as far as he was aware, Noah hadn't followed Quinn back, which was rude but totally okay, of course.

The little three dots came dancing at the bottom of their chat, a chat that flirting had entered and left.

Why was his heart beating so fast?

Why were his palms sweating?

Noah's reply came back, and it made Quinn weak at the knees for all the wrong reasons.

Might have had something to do with you liking this.

And then that photo, that photo, with the topless Noah on the beach, with the sun highlighting every muscle on his toned body, from his pecs to his six-pack, to that V-line, dipping down underneath those red shorts, those thick thighs, toned legs, covered in a dusting of hair.

He sent it in the chat. So now here it was, in a private space, forced to be admired again.

He knew Quinn liked it!

Curse his clumsy fingers!

He hadn't replied quickly enough, and he was making it obvious that he lusted over the photo once again. He needed to say something, anything.

I hope you know I liked that photo for the beach.

Oh, I didn't think you liked it for any other reason.

Good. Because it was just the beach.

Yeah. Of course.

If Quinn were on a quiz show, and they asked him the colour of the bird in the blue sky, or the shade of the ocean, he would fail every answer. Because he hadn't looked at the beach. Or the bird, if there even was one.

You should get some rest, Quinn. You've got a busy day tomorrow.

Quinn stared out at the dark room, lost in thought. After everything Noah said, their moment together yesterday, it wasn't too late.

Want to come over?

He knew it was daring. Knew that he was playing with fire. Noah did his best writing at night. Judging by the way he talked about Hay, he did his best exploring at night, too. When the locals couldn't whisper. Because if they knew he was entering Quinn's apartment again, they'd gossip. Not maliciously. But speculatively.

Thudding heart pounding in his ears. No response. He shouldn't have done it. He'd crossed a line, asking Noah over. In all honesty, he wasn't sure where the bravery came from.

But then the dots appeared.

Typing.

Be there in ten.

And then Quinn couldn't sleep because he was as excited as a kid on Christmas eve.