Booked for the summer

By the time Eliza Hart got the last suitcase up the third flight of narrow stairs, she had decided three things. First, London stairs had been designed by men who hated luggage and women with scholarship deadlines. Second, estate agents belonged in a special legal category that should probably end in prison. Third, if the music drifting up through the floorboards carried on for one more verse, she was going to murder someone with her rolled-up tenancy agreement. She left the suitcase by the narrow bed and stood in the middle of the flat, breathing carefully through the ache in her arms. The place was smaller than the photos suggested, which was impressive considering the photos had already looked like evidence in a fraud case. One window overlooked a street of brick terraces, hanging baskets, and bicycles chained to railings at angles that suggested either optimism or theft. The late afternoon light had that stretched, honey-colored quality she still wasn’t used to. Summer in Leeds had never looked quite this theatrical. Below her, a burst of laughter rose from the shop under the flat, followed by the clink of cups and a man’s voice saying, “No, absolutely not, Judith, if you hide the lemon drizzle from me again, I will call that theft.” Another voice, older and triumphant, called back, “You said that last week and then gave me a free scone.” Traitorous warmth ran through the sound of it. Cozy. Inviting. Entirely unhelpful. Eliza shut the window. Silence lasted perhaps four seconds before she heard the same voice again, muffled now through the floorboards, singing along to something old and cheerful while moving what sounded like half the furniture in Camden. She looked at the pile of boxes. The law textbooks. The folders. The stack of fresh legal pads. Her black umbrella, placed by the door despite the blazing sun, because weather was not a moral force and therefore should not be trusted. This summer had a plan. She would start her term, earn her place, keep her head down, and secure the kind of future in which rent invoices did not cause chest pain. She had not moved to London to be charmed by atmospheric nonsense. She unpacked her pens first and lined them parallel on the small desk by the window. Then the light in the kitchenette flickered twice and died. Eliza stared at it. “No,” she said to the ceiling. “You actually don’t get to do that.” She tried the switch again. Nothing. She opened the tiny under-sink cupboard, found the fuse box, and looked at it with the expression of a woman willing it into obedience. It remained offensively mechanical. The tenancy email had mentioned that issues could be reported through the book cafe downstairs, where the landlord’s nephew handled keys and maintenance ‘informally.’ Informally was usually another word for incompetently. She smoothed a hand over the front of her shirt, picked up the dead bulb as if it were evidence, and went downstairs. The bell above the shop door gave a bright, treacherously pleasant jingle when she stepped inside. Cool air met her first, then the smell of coffee, cinnamon, old paper, and something buttery from a glass cake stand on the counter. Bookshelves lined the walls in crooked rows, packed with novels, poetry, travel guides, and the kind of hardbacks people bought because they liked being seen carrying them. Mismatched lamps glowed in corners. A child in a sunhat sat on the rug turning pages of a picture book with grave commitment. And behind the counter, reaching up to write Today’s Special on a chalkboard, stood the owner of the voice. He was taller than she’d expected, in rolled sleeves and dark jeans, one forearm dusted with flour like he’d been dragged through a bakery fight. His hair had given up on being tidy at some point this morning and had never recovered. Slightly rugged was too flattering a term for someone whose stubble suggested poor life choices, and yet the overall effect was annoyingly effective. He turned, saw her, and smiled with the easy confidence of a man to whom even statues usually smiled back. “Hi,” he said. “You must be the new upstairs neighbor.” “That depends,” Eliza said. “Are you the informal maintenance process?” His smile widened. “God, I hope not. Sounds deeply unsexy. My name is Noah.” He came around the counter and offered his hand. She looked at it for a beat too long, then shifted the dead bulb into her other palm and shook. His hand was warm. Infuriatingly warm. “Eliza.” “Nice to meet you, Eliza-Who-Almost-Made-Informal-Sound-Like-A-Death-Sentence.” “It usually is.” A laugh caught in his throat before he let it out properly. “Right. You do not mess about. So, what happened?” She held up the bulb. “Your flat’s kitchen light has died.” He leaned back slightly. “My flat?” “The flat I am paying too much money to occupy above your shop.” “Ah. Then yes, tragic. Thoughts and prayers.” She stared at him. He held up both hands. “Kidding. Mostly. Let me guess, old fuse box, landlord vanished into the moral fog, and you’ve been here under two hours.” “One hour and twenty-three minutes.” “That is a very specific amount of suffering.” “I enjoy accuracy.” “I can see that.” His eyes dropped briefly to the bulb, then to her neatly buttoned shirt, the sharp little crease between her brows, and back to her face. “All right. I can come up and fix it.” “I don’t need a rescue.” “No, you’ve made that quite clear. You need a functioning light.” From one of the armchairs, an elderly woman looked over the top of her paperback and said, “Noah can fix anything except his own accounts.” “Thank you, Judith,” Noah said without looking round. “Your support means the world.” “It means do not lend him money.” Eliza’s mouth twitched before she could stop it. Noah caught it immediately. “Oh, we’ve got nearly a smile. Fast work for day one.” “You should treasure the memory. It may never happen again.” “I love a challenge.” There was no reason at all for that line to land where it did, somewhere annoying and warm under her ribs. He reached for a small ring of keys beneath the till and called toward the back, “Mina, can you watch the front for five?” A girl in her early twenties appeared carrying a tray of clean glasses. She took one look at Eliza and then at Noah, and her face arranged itself into the expression of someone spotting weather. “Absolutely,” she said. “Try not to flirt so hard she sues.” Eliza turned to Noah. “Is everyone here unbearable?” “Only the loyal ones.” He held the shop door open for her with a little half-bow that should have been ridiculous and somehow wasn’t. On the stairs behind the cafe, the sounds of the shop softened to a murmur. Up close, he smelled faintly of espresso and soap. She unlocked the flat, stepped inside, and immediately felt absurdly aware of the unpacked boxes, the plain bedspread, the stack of legal textbooks on the floor. Her life, reduced to labeled cardboard in front of a stranger who looked as if he belonged in this city in a way she had not yet worked out how to do. Noah glanced around, quick and unobtrusive. “You’ve done the pens already.” She looked at the desk. The pens sat in a perfect line. “That’s hardly incriminating.” “No. Just specific.” “Are you always this observational, or do you reserve it for women whose electrical systems fail on first acquaintance?” “I like to tailor the service.” She folded her arms. “That sounded more charming in your head, I assume.” “It sounded excellent in my head.” After taking the bulb from her hand and putting it back in the socket he crouched by the fuse box, tapping the little switches with practiced fingers. “You moved for uni?” “Yeah… Law.” He looked up. “That explains the cross-examination.” “It should improve with time.” “Terrifying.” The kitchen light snapped back on. Eliza hated the small rush of relief she felt. “Fine. Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” He stood, but instead of leaving at once, he nodded toward the boxes. “Need a hand with the rest?” “No.” The answer came fast enough to cut paper. Something shifted in his face, not hurt exactly, more a quick recalibration. “Right. Fair enough.” She heard it then, the part she’d made too sharp. It was an old habit, striking first before obligation could attach itself to kindness. But she had no intention of starting in London by becoming someone else’s small responsibility. “I’m being practical,” she said. “But thanks for offering.” Noah leaned one shoulder against the kitchenette doorway. “And here I was, worried you thought I looked weak.” “I think you look like a man with flour on his arm and no fear of germs.” He glanced down, wiped at the flour, and only succeeded in smudging it. “Occupational hazard.” There was a brief silence. Not bad, exactly. Just there. From the street below came the sound of a bus exhaling at the stop, someone laughing, a siren far off. Summer light lay across the floorboards in long bands. Noah looked toward the window. “Camden’s noisy for the first few nights. Deliveries at six, students at midnight, one bloke with a saxophone who believes in himself far too good.” “How inspiring for him.” “If it gets too much, come downstairs. Coffee helps.” “I don’t drink coffee after four.” He blinked. “You really are new here.” “And you really do speak in invitations.” “Perk of the job.” He moved to the door, then paused. “We’re closed Mondays. Open late Thursdays. Best almond croissants this side of the canal, and I will accept formal written challenges on that point.” “I’ll alert the legal community.” “Please do.” His grin came back, easy as breathing. “Welcome to London, Eliza.” When he left, the flat felt quieter than before, which was irritating. She stood for a moment with one hand on the door, listening to his footsteps retreat down the stairs and the returning rise of voices from the cafe below. Then she shut it and looked around her small, bright, imperfect flat. On the desk, her pens were still aligned. Her textbooks waited in their stack. The schedule folded in her tote bag remained exactly as she’d drafted it on the train, every hour spoken for. Below her, someone laughed again, and Noah’s voice answered, warm and low and unmistakably close. Eliza walked to the window and opened it a fraction despite herself. Then she sat at the desk, took out her course packet, and underlined the first line with more force than necessary, while the bookshop beneath her went on living and getting under her skin.