Gigi, Listening, page 1
Advance Praise for Gigi, Listening
“One woman’s misguided quest for love takes us on an adventure through the English countryside. With delightful characters and gorgeous scenery, it’s a sweet romance you’ll want to cozy up with. Completely charming!”
—Carley Fortune, New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After
“A vacation in book form—and I loved every minute of it. From a charming and relatable protagonist to a quirky supporting cast (plus two male leads to swoon over), this is a story to fall for from one of my favorite writers.”
—Marissa Stapley, New York Times bestselling author of Lucky
“The rom-com read I needed with just enough tingly love goose bumps to make me want to plan my next trip to England. A beautifully written story exploring love and a life filled with taking chances.”
—Sonya Singh, bestselling author of Sari Not Sari
“For the hopeless romantics in all of us. Endearing, uplifting, and with a vivid cast, it serves as a beautiful reminder to embrace the unexpected. I didn’t want this ride to end!”
—Amy Lea, author of Set on You
“Curl up with the heartfelt and funny Gigi, Listening and prepare to be charmed by its unforgettable cast of characters. Chantel Guertin’s utterly delightful love story will make you want to book the next flight to London!”
—Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, authors of Forever Hold Your Peace
ALSO BY CHANTEL GUERTIN
FOR ADULTS
Instamom
Stuck in Downward Dog
Love Struck
FOR TEENS
The Rule of Thirds
Depth of Field
Leading Lines
Golden Hour
Gigi, Listening
CHANTEL GUERTIN
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Chantel Guertin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
The K with book logo Reg US Pat. & TM Off.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Doubleday Canada.
Maps courtesy of Emma Dolan.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3538-6 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3537-9
For Chris,
who proposed to me in England,
thus making it the most romantic country in the world.
Chapter One
Ann Arbor, Michigan
I just want to read my book. But it’s too dark in Knight’s, the steakhouse on Liberty where I’m perched on a white pleather chair at a table by the window. Not even the glow of the lights on the marquee at the Michigan Theater across the street is bright enough to illuminate the space in front of me.
Plus, I’m on a date with Kevan. Ke-van. Rhymes with se-dan.
He’s at the bar, checking the scores of the games currently showing on one of the flatscreens.
Maybe I could use the flashlight on my phone to read just a few lines of the Julia Quinn novel I started earlier today. The romance was just starting to heat up.
I reach into my black leather bag, slung over the seat, my fingers touching the soft paper as Kevan returns. As he slides into the seat, I drop the book.
“Tigers are up, Pistons are down. You wanna share the shrimp cocktail?”
“I’m good. I ate earlier.”
“It’s just a shrimp cocktail,” he says. “They comp it for me. Part of being a member of the best customer club”—he thumbs to his black-and-white photo on the wall behind him, where dozens of other best customers are framed, including his father, who is also a prof at the University of Michigan. “There’s calamari in it, too. You’ve gotta try it. Best thing on the menu.” A guy at the bar cheers, his arms raised above his head, hands in fists, as he bounces up and down on his stool. Kevan lifts a finger to me. “BRB. Order the shrimp cocktail if the waitress comes by while I’m gone.”
I’m going to kill Dory. It’s the third time Kevan’s gotten up to check the scores. If he can do that, why can’t I pull my book out and read it? Because I promised Dory that I would give this date my best shot. Unlike the date with Roman a few weeks ago, and the guy before that. Aidan or maybe Adrian. The one with four cats.
Kevan returns—again—sits down and taps his fingers on the edge of the mahogany high-top, leaning back in his chair. “Do you wanna sit at the bar?” I say, because maybe if he’s watching the game I could read my book and we’d both be happy?
But he shakes his head. “No way. This is a first date. I’m here to talk to you. Now, where were we? Oh, right, I was telling you about my band.”
I don’t think he ever mentioned a band, but I might have been daydreaming about being here with Zane instead. I look out the window. Across the street a lanky teen in baggy cargo pants has set up a metal ladder. Now, he’s on the top step, holding a long pole with a metal claw on the end, changing the plastic rectangular letters on the sign that indicates the movies playing this weekend.
“We’re called the Double As,” Kevan says. “It works on a bunch of levels. All of us guys are profs in the Anatomy department, but also because we’re here in Ann Arbor. We’re playing at the Mash next week,” he says. “You should come.” He points a thin finger at me. “You could be my groupie.”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I say.
“I didn’t even tell you what day,” he teases, the corner of his mouth turning up. He lifts his beer stein and clinks it against my half-full glass of wine, a move he’s done every single time before taking a sip. I’m pretty sure there’s beer in my sauvignon blanc.
I blink and try to be positive, like I promised Dory I’d be. Kevan isn’t terrible looking. He has nice amber eyes and straight teeth and hydrated lips, though he also has a bit of a weird patch of hair under the bottom one that I didn’t notice in his profile pic. And a row of earrings in his left ear, all amber studs—his mother’s birthstone, he’s told me.
As Kevan prattles on about something else, I go through what I’ll tell Dory when she inevitably asks, with overwhelming optimism, how the date went.
I won’t be going on a second date, I’ll tell her. And she’ll tell me to give her reasons why not. And I will. But the thing is, none of these little quirks are the dealbreakers. It has nothing to do with his earrings or the fact that he’s a sports-score checker or in a band with other professors or is a little too enthusiastic about the shrimp cocktail at Knight’s. It has nothing to do with Kevan at all, just like it had nothing to do with Roman or Aidan or Adrian or any other guy I’ve first-dated on the XO app. It has everything to do with the fact that Kevan is not Zane. Kevan and I will never have a romantic start to our story. That’s the problem with dating apps, at least for me. The beginning is always the same: an algorithm. I want a story. If I can’t have a story, I’d rather be reading my book.
Thankfully, a shrimp cocktail and a half hour later, we’re out on the street, and since Kevan parked in the opposite direction to my apartment, I manage to convince him that I’d prefer the solo, seven-minute walk home.
The air is warm and smells like apricots, thanks to the tiny white flowers that blossom on the Osmanthus bushes under the canopied maples in Liberty Plaza. I turn up Washington, the mix of moon and sporadic streetlamp lighting my route back to Love Interest, my bookstore and my home. I unlock the shop’s front door on Washington and pull it open, the bells clanging and the familiar smell of worn pages filling the air. I make my way down the Persian rug–covered hardwood floors that cough up a puff of dust with every step, tossing my purse on the scratched oak of the cash desk my grandfather built, where dozens of famous authors have etched their names over the fifty years the store’s been around. I duck into the back storage closet to grab the broom, the metal cold
How I was reminded of my parents’ own meet cute.
How I dismissed it, then finally listened to it.
How I heard Zane’s voice for the very first time.
Now, I press Play. As Zane’s voice fills my ears, reality slips away.
“Looks like a nor’easter’s heading our way,” Jack said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Mirabelle looked over at him, wondering if he was speaking to her. Wondering if she should say something in return. She pulled her gauzy shawl tighter over her shoulders and looked out at the whitecaps in the darkening water.
Zane’s smooth tone glides over every word, and I block out the story I know by heart and pretend he’s talking to me, telling me about his day. While to any passerby on the street it might look like I’m just sweeping the floor, to me, Zane’s here with me as I tidy up the shop.
Tonight, tidying the shop isn’t the worst part of the day. It’s the absolute best.
Zane’s voice carries me through my chores. The floor goes from gritty to smooth. The bin of garbage under the cash desk, filled to the brim with paper coffee cups, plastic lids and cash register receipts, becomes empty. The worn rugs cough dust clouds onto the brick wall outside. The heavy wood counter goes from cluttered to neat. All of it happens as I’m alone with his voice.
An hour later, with Zane’s voice still speaking to me through my headphones, I step outside, locking the door behind me before I nip around the corner to Fourth, to the first metal door. The stairs to my second-floor apartment creak underfoot, and the old oak door at the top catches, as it always does, on a raised floorboard. I give it a nudge and push it open to the room. The apartment is starting to show its aches and pains—many more than when Mom and Dad lived here with Lars and me. Dory’s always suggesting I hire a handyman to fix the sticky lock, the dripping tap, the nail in the floorboard by my bed, which always snags my socks. What she really wants is for me to hire a handyman for more than his ability to fix my faucet—and then tell her all about it. “He might be cute, he might be single,” she’s said more than once, but let’s be real: he’s never going to end up being like Dominic, the handyman and single father that Emma falls in love with in Jane Green’s Falling. They never are. And they’re never going to have the same soulmate quality as Zane.
Turns out, it’s not that hard to fix a leaking kitchen faucet, and doing so myself reminds me I don’t need a man to complete me—even if it means the faucet ends up leaking again a few weeks later because I haven’t actually fixed it properly. Dad always struggled with repairs, and Mom always put up with it because she knew it meant a lot to him to do it himself, too.
I kick off my soft blue leather flats, bend over and place them neatly on the small tasseled mat, then make my way through the apartment, passing the small room where years ago Lars and I used to sleep in bunk beds. It’s now an office and a spot I go to on nights I can’t sleep, to curl up on the blue velvet chaise lounge and read.
The back wall of the apartment is exposed brick, and overhead wooden beams span the entire width of the apartment, where I’ve attached so many twinkle lights I don’t have to turn on any of the harsh overhead lighting. While the apartment was cramped for a family of four, it’s plenty of space for just me.
The tile floor in the kitchen is cold on the soles of my bare feet. From the fridge I pull out a Tupperware of tomato soup and pour it into a pot. While I’m waiting for the soup to warm on the stove, I arrange a few crackers and cheese on a cutting board, then pour myself the remains of an open bottle of white wine. My headphones are still on and Zane is still whispering in my ear as I eat my dinner cross-legged on the mustard love seat in the living room. When I’m finished, I move the dishes to the sink, turn off the twinkly lights and make my way into my bedroom, where I change out of my long, flowy dress and pull on cotton shorts and a tank that takes a bit of maneuvering to slide over the headphones. I wash my face, brush my teeth, then crawl into bed. Under the heft of my duvet, I let myself sink into my mattress, realizing how many nights I’ve fallen asleep listening to Zane’s voice. Tonight, the part after the date, was like any other day, but it’s the kind of day I like best. I don’t care that I ate the simplest meal at home, or that I spent a good part of the evening cleaning the shop, just like every other night. I’m happier doing this—any of this—than spending yet another night out on a dud date with someone who isn’t going to turn out to be the one.
I close my eyes and, with no other distractions, reward myself with the pure joy that comes from listening to Zane read Their Finest Hour.
“What are you doing standing out there in the rain?” Mirabelle asked. She pushed open the screen door. Jack stood on the porch, his hair slick on his face.
“If you want to stand in the rain, you’ve got to be outside. It’s not raining indoors,” Jack said with a laugh.
Mirabelle gave a half smile, then turned away. A moment later, she turned back. “Well? Are you coming in or not?”
Jack reached forward to grab the door and followed her inside.
His voice is like poured chocolate, the kind you buy at a fancy shop, not Walgreens. In the funny passages, his voice belly-laughs. And in the sad parts, his voice hugs me. In the intimate parts, it’s like he’s right there beside me, whispering in my ear. I know he’s just a voice, but whenever I hear his voice, I feel this connection to him. Like I already know him.
Listening to him read gives me all the feels. The way I first felt with David. When I couldn’t wait to see him, and couldn’t stop thinking about him when I wasn’t with him. That’s how I feel hearing Zane’s voice. So much so that even when I’m on a date with one of the guys I’ve matched with on the XO app, I can’t wait to get home to Zane. And it’s not just his voice—it’s everything that voice holds, everything it represents. It feels like more than just a coincidence that he’s narrating the very book that brought my parents together.
I close my eyes.
Later that evening, by the snap and crackle of the dwindling fire, Jack wrapped his arms around Mirabelle as they lay on the couch. He smoothed her hair out of the way and nuzzled her neck. “Are you awake?” he said, but now, it’s Zane whispering in my ear, to me, not Jack. I sigh and relax. My free hand touches my face, then slides down my neck, tracing the edge of my body to the top of my shorts. His breath is hot on my face, his whispers making my whole body tingle. My fingers slip under the elastic band of my shorts, dancing over my skin, warming it with every touch. My free hand reaches for the other pillow and I hug it into my body. My back arches. I moan softly, then cry out. Then sink into the mattress.
Eventually, I press Pause on my phone, then pull off my headphones, and toss both onto the rug beside my bed. The notched switch of the lamp is just barely in reach, and I twist it once, then roll onto my side, sighing with contentment.
I’m not delusional. I know Zane isn’t my boyfriend—but when I’m lost in my own world with him, everything feels right. I wish I could find a real person who gives me the same feeling, but frankly, I don’t think I ever will.
