Lena Carter hated rain.
Not the gentle, misty kind that made bookshop windows fog up in a dreamy haze-no, she could tolerate that. It was the angry, pounding rain she despised, the sort that hammered rooftops like furious drums, soaked through coats in seconds, and ruined leather-bound books left too close to an open door. The kind that had just sent a harried, dripping-wet man crashing into her quiet little bookstore like a disoriented hurricane, scattering droplets everywhere as he came in.
The bell above the door jingled violently as he stumbled inside, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, rain streaming down his face and dripping onto the wooden floor. His expensive-looking coat clung to him in a soggy mess, water pooling at his feet. He blinked rainwater from his lashes, struggling to catch his breath, his gaze locking onto hers with an almost comical look of desperation and mild embarrassment.
"Please tell me you sell umbrellas," he said, his voice rough and edged with both hope and awkwardness.
Lena arched a brow, clutching the first edition of Wuthering Heights she'd been shelving a little tighter against her chest. "This is a bookstore," she replied dryly, "not a weather supply shop."