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I clutch the sheet of paper he gave me and shove it under the register, just as a rumble of thunder rolls.
“Hey, you all right?”
Magnus is there and I jump at the smooth, low sound of his voice. All my pulse points are on fire. He must have come in just as the thunder sounded.
His hair is damp from the light drizzle and he looks dewy and gorgeous and almost enough to forget the inspector.
“Great. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure?” He searches my face. “Because you haven’t offered me a cookie—”
“You never eat them!”
“—and you don’t have the prices up.”
I shrug. He’s got enough going on, so I’m not going to burden him. “I give them away mostly, anyway, so why bother? Let’s get going. The day isn’t going to get any younger!”
When the mail comes that day, it seems all my bills are coming early. They’re not, but it seems that way. I put them in a pile behind the counter to take them upstairs to deal with Sunday night.
At six, when he leaves to get me milk because Magnus seems to be a shining light in that drab day, I get a hand-delivered letter. It’s not a letter, it’s more like a fine to do with the sweets.
“This can’t be normal!”
The bell dings and all my senses are on alert as I know Magnus comes in. A plastic jug of milk hits the counter and he takes the paper from me. He frowns. “What the hell?”
“They can’t stop me giving things away.”
“It says here sales—”
“I can read.” I snatch it back and fold it up, and grab the milk and put it in the little fridge I have on the other side of the counter. “I’ll pay it.”
“It seems hefty.”
“I’ll be looking into it all,” I say quietly. “But big money speaks. So I won’t sell, I won’t display them and that’s that.”
“Do you make revenue? I mean…”
I glare at Magnus, even though this isn’t his fault. “They aren’t really about making money, although a little here and there never hurts. It’s about creating a cozy space, a neighborhood store where people can get books, and if I give them a treat, then maybe they’ll buy more down the track, or they’ll tell people.”
“Or you feed someone.”
He sort of looks at me like he’s angry, but I must imagine it because that expression vanishes.
“This is about that….bastard…Edward Sinclair. He’s trying to stronghold me out of this place. It’s just another little thing in a long line of little things.”
What Sinclair doesn’t get is the harder he pushes and bullies, the deeper I’m digging in my heels. I might be seen as soft or nice, but I’m also more stubborn than a gnat. Little, but with persistent staying power.
“So, just sell.”
“And give him something to drag me into some kind of war with the health department, or whoever he’s paying?” I lift my chin. “Unless you mean here.”
“What?” He’s silent a split second. “No. I meant your little treat.”
I rub a hand against my temple. “I just want it all to stop.”
“Then how about that fundraiser, Zoey?”
He holds out his hand, and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I put my hand in his. “Lead the way.”
