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She has zero business sense. But I smile and place one hand against my chest. “You’re an angel, Zoey. My resume got wet yesterday, but I’ll give it to you so you have my number.”
I walk past her, deftly pulling the books she has her hand on away from her and to the counter. Setting them down, I retrieve the resume. It’s a little mangled. I didn’t think much beyond shifting it to today’s jeans. Magnus Simpson, I’ve decided, is just as soft as her, and he’s also so caught up in caring for Gran that he really isn’t thinking about making a perfect impression.
After all, he’d never be in this poky hole-in-the-wall if he was.
She comes over to me, her head barely reaching my shoulder. And I’m met with a hint of violets and spice that are both understated, sexy, romantic, and old fashioned. It suits her. “Oh, good. Your number’s still clear on it. I’ll program it in to my phone and here.” She stretches across the counter, narrowly missing a glass covered plate with what looks like cake inside. There are cookies, too, further back. But these are dark, almost black, and no doubt full of chocolate and sugar. It’s a wonder a man doesn’t get diabetes walking into this place.
Zoey hands me a little card. It’s very simple. Just the shop name, hers, and a phone number. Just the one. I slide it into my pocket.
“I’ll show you around.”
We weave in among the narrow high shelves and Zoey points out the little sections for different books. Sale items, fiction, lit, women’s fiction, minority voices, art, history—it goes on and up the stairs that have piles of books on them here and there. The place is a death trap.
Maybe I’ll call the fire department.
Of course, she’d probably feed them cake and cookies and they’d fall into a sugar coma and wake, forgetting why they’d come here.
Upstairs is another floor of books, but it’s a little more open, a big arched window in the front of the floor, and an open space with some comfy chairs and a sofa and a table with books. There are even lamps and a rug.
I want to eye her with disgust. She’s made a reading area. This isn’t a library, for crying out loud. No wonder she’s harried and talking about tough times. Dear fucking God. She’s a mess.
“I love this little space,” she says, eyes shining. “I was going to have it full of books up here, too. This used to be a storage area and my grandpa had a hardware store downstairs, but when he retired, it got turned into a dollar store to the people it was rented to, and when my grandparents passed, and the people renting closed up, well…I figured it was time for me to open my dream.”
“This store?”
She nods, and smiles dreamily. “I don’t know where I’d be without books. They’re magic.”
“Like the sign?”
“Yes. And I thought of having a place where people can peruse in comfort, or just escape and read something, no matter if they buy, then it would all be worth it.”
Money. That would be worth it.
“I know it might sound stupid.”
It does. “No, not at all,” Magnus Simpson, all round good guy and sucker says.
“And who knows? Maybe people mention it to others, and a book gets sold down the line.”
Downstairs the bell dings. And she grabs my arm, sending sparks of fire through me. I put it down to static electricity from the rug. “Come on, Magnus, time to get started.”
I follow her down the stairs, making sure not to touch her again.
This is going to be like stealing candy from a baby.
Chapter Four
Zoey
How a man can get sexier is beyond me, but he has. And dripping wet Magnus was scorching. Dry Magnus is better. Maybe it’s because that dimple shows a little more each time he smiles, or he listens to me.
Listens and doesn’t run.
Of course, he’d like money, so he’s not about to run, but still…
I wipe suddenly sweaty hands down the sides of my dress. The Sinclair thugs came again last night as I was about to lock the door. The same offer as before, but this time they’d left without their usual Cult-level tenacity.
I’ve left him to unpack and price and shelve the books. The pricing is easy as I sorted the boxes and marked the tops of the boxes. He should be fine with that.
