It could have been in the way her eyes were screwing on the books, looking curiously and with so much concentration and great care. She picked the books like they were treasures, like they held some dark ancient secrets that only the wise readers can unfold, and it's what books are, so he thought, and apparently by the way her hands held them, she thought so too.

Or maybe the dark hair, shoulder length, reflecting the sun that filtered through the large windows, his fingers craving to touch and cradle, the way her fingers twisted her own mouth, its redness and fullness making him gasp, like he wanted his fingers there instead of hers.

Even her body, god did he noticed the body, curves perfect, top to bottom, especially bottom, he's an ass man, but those damned legs and the tight fitted red dress… It's too much.

She just walked in, and she's too much.

He is not used to eying women, he's not like that, never was, and it's not what he's doing now. Or is it?

But she's a hurricane who came straight to the French literature section, good taste he thought immediately, he had been ranging the shelves right next, putting Steinbeck away from Spanish literature and who's that stupid, but then he finally turned to the presence next to him and gods, he immediately thought about how good she would taste.

She holding three books, Hugo, Balzac and Proust, and he can't help but cringes at her last choice, something she apparently noticed as she looked up to him.

He immediately turned his head away, caught and damn him he is not like that to anyone usually so what the hell.

His bookshop is cozy, filled with what he loves the most, books and thousands of them, neatly posed on wooden shelves, it's all his, except that he sells those books but he no longer felt a small ache in his heart whenever one of his babies goes away. That lasted three weeks.

Kinsale is cozy too, simple, bright and rainy these days but it's everything he loves. It's colorful, watery and his books fit perfectly between tea and coffee, in the nearby coffee or the park.

It should be noted that the fact that he made it, owns his little paradise is still a wonder to his family, while it was obvious to his friends, not he's not capable, or that he couldn't do it, he just has some problems. Some issues, nothing serious, nothing life threatening no. He just doesn't like to talk to strangers. Or in front of a crowd of more than 4 people. Or his family. Sometimes his friends. He always looks down and never speaks to anyone new to him.

He is shy.

Madly so.

So yeah, hearing that he managed to get himself his own company, even how small it is, talking to managers and bankers, now every day to customers, had been taken as a joke by the family.

He's better now, not that easy around people like the damned goddess right in front of him but he can advise the lost souls in his shop who never knew Sartre and Bergson could cure their pains.

And he even toasted to his best friend John's wedding. For two seconds. And it was not more than a whisper. But he got up, that's a thing right?

His eyes focused hard on Of Mice and Men, clenching the damned book like a life line and god he shouldn't have. He had a girl once, childhood friend and different paths in existence but they get to prom and danced and yeah he had dates. Horribly awkward dinners where the girl is always leaving before desert or just wanted to get into his pants and don't mind his lack of conversation.

Right now he just wished he could disappear into the ground, but a part of him wants to turn around, tell her to drop Proust and how beautiful she is, and

No, he can't.

"Do you … Hm … Do you think I should go with Ninety-Three ?" her voice is velvet, soft, and she's American, it's getting better and better and shit he's sweating because now he has to turn around, she's a customer. Who took his breath away.

Slowly, a smile in which he can barely held back his fear, but she's not danger he should really do something about that shyness because it's killing him.

"I'm sorry?" his mouth is dry and he turned from her thirty seconds ago but her eyes he drowns in them.

She's not smiling, not on purpose he thinks because she tries he sees it, she looks down and fumbles with her hands, behind her back, to her front, looks down and down, hair falling and scent of roses and her fills his nose.

You perfectly heard her you stupid old c…

"I was wondering if … Well never mind"

Great you made her run away, like always.

"Wait wait wait" he rushes to her, Steinbeck dumbly falling from his hands and she moves to pick it up just as he does and they both end up apologizing over and over again, their hands touching the cover at the same time, it's cliché and her scent invades him again.

She looks up at him and her hair is slightly tousled, she's up close and she has a scar on her upper lip, a cute nose and he's lost for words, lost in her. Crouching down on the ground, hands on hers, she seems as lost as he is, she's… drinking him in. And maybe even lost at words.

Stop, he picks up the book and quickly get up, wants to offer his hands but she clumsily gets up and she's adorable as she picks her bags, fix her hair and his hand aches again so he place it at his neck, "sorry for you know" he doesn't even know himself so how is she supposed to know?

"Hm I wasn't … Yeah" she still looks down and she's blushing madly, her hands falling on her cheeks and she feels her hot face, and her eyes close in embarrassment, and she's cute, adorable beyond words and if he was not mistaken and his heart wasn't beating so rapidly from their previous closeness he would notice she was just like him. Wait what

Realization hits him, she's embarrassed head down and she's like him, clumsy and gods, she's like him.

He doesn't think, doesn't listen to any rational or irrational thoughts that enter his clouded mind, and "I would pick Hugo over the three for his strength but Balzac is a romantic and a hell of a good writer, Proust is difficult but a must have if you want to look smug in front of your friends, but then you have wonders like Chateaubriand and nineteenth century poets that would fit you" he can't stop, he should because the next words would have been date me please and he doesn't want to sound desperate but her eyes gods.

He's flirting, he doesn't do flirting, he did online meetings, he did dates thought friends, he did childhood sweetheart but he never ever flirts with stranger, or at all, he just doesn't. What the hell is happening?

"Fit me" her voice is still soft and she gasp at him, and great she offended, mouth open in gap and he sees her teeth, and since when does he look at his customer teeth with the urge to lick them with his tongue, what the hell really

"I mean…" he gulps "I mean you're a true beauty, not that I don't…" and great "Your beauty is astonishing like … it's not" rumblings "what I mean is" rumbling and fumbling "you fit in 19th century poetry in its definition of beauty and grace, full lips and melancholy, you're a poet muse, a rare bird, you're not a bird but a very stunning woman, it's why it does fit you" he speaks quickly, now wishes he was dead and prays to heaven she won't smack him with the bird thing, because she's more than beautiful, it's not the first thing he noticed, French literature, great taste and intelligence, and then her beauty.

He sees her face going from surprised to more surprised and she's looking at him like he's a wild thing, because he's fumbling, her shyness still preeminent, she's like him.

"You think I'm hm I'm pretty?" she's looking at him, mouth nothing but a small gasp and yes hell he does.

"Well I didn't mean to offend you" and she moving toward him, because when he spoke he took a step back and her arm is raised like she want to put him right where he was, afraid he was going somewhere and "You didn't" is rushed out of her. Her arm quickly fall back and she looks at him still, gulps, licks her lips and a sudden rush to taste that mouth is flooding thought him.

"Oh" oh is very eloquent.

"I don't … I don't think Proust is it for me but … Can you help me?" she's hopeful, doesn't seem to look at him the way he looks at her but there is something there, longing and she's not letting go, neither is he, even when he wished he stopped embarrassing himself, they are holding on to whatever the attraction is. Fighting their shyness.

"Of course, it's what I'm here for", he breathes out, and the smile that slip from his lips is true and calm and this is maybe the first time in his life it's happening.

She smiles back, his heart is selling away to hers.

"Regina" her hand darts out, reaching for his, they clench, stay in their warmth as he answers "Robin" in the same whispering tone as hers.

Regina is Robin's Esmeralda, she's a Jane Bennett but maybe she's an Elizabeth in hiding and he wants to know if she'd choose Little Dorrit over Oliver Twist like he does and she's his heroine.

He's screwed.

So this is very AU, set in Ireland between books and Robin and Regina's pov. All mistakes are mine, the show and oq are not mine sadly.

Please take the time to review, on here twitter or tumblr, you know it's important to authors, and I'd like to know if you liked the chap so I can post more !