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In short, this Magnus doesn’t look like someone who needs a job in a secondhand bookshop in Brooklyn.
Then again, never judge a sexy book by its sexy cover, and this man is one sexy cover of a book. I swallow. I’m off track again. I plaster on a smile. “Do you want a towel?”
“Just a job.” His face creases with concern and my heart clenches. “Unless it’s already gone.”
“The job? My job?”
“Yeah, you know, the sign in the window? Thought I’d apply.” He smiles at me and there’s a hint of a dimple in his left cheek that’s utterly swoon worthy.
I suck in a lungful of the coffee and sugar laced air with the hint of leather and spice that always seems to come from old books. I decide to check, just to make sure. “The sign’s for here. This place. You’re looking for a job? Here?”
I sound like a complete idiot.
He raises a brow and looks around. I just opened and no one is here yet. It’s a bookstore. People don’t normally come in for books until later. Or at all. Which is why I’ve got the baked goods and coffee. People need those.
“This is a small secondhand bookstore,” I say, just to make sure. “Maybe you got off the wrong stop on the L.”
“Nope. I live a few blocks away. I walked.”
It makes sense. He’s come in the wrong direction. He must be a hipster.
But then he names a street that’s definitely not in the hipsterverse.
“Is the job still available? I saw the sign the other day, and it’s still here, so I was hoping to apply.” He looks about. “I don’t see anyone else, unless there’s a horde of invisible people lining up.”
I laugh, I can’t help it, and I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms against my jeans. He can’t work here. I’ll get arrested for unsolicited ogling or something. “I’m sorry, you just don’t look like someone who usually goes looking for a job.” That’s a slight exaggeration, as when someone does venture in, there are all kinds. Not that anyone’s been in for a while. Or when they have, actually returned.
I scrub a hand over my mess of frizzy hair. “I’m sorry, it’s early and I was up late baking. I’m being a bad host.” Now he’s looking at me like I’m from outer space. “Would you like some coffee or a cookie?”
He frowns and for a moment there’s a hardness to him, but it must be the early morning light coming in through the store front window. “Is that normal for a job interview?”
Is it? “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve had that sign up forever.”
His face falls and he shifts his feet on floor. “So you’re not looking to hire?”
“Yes. I mean…I can’t pay much—”
“Neighborhood prices rising? It’s why I moved out here. Can’t afford Manhattan. Not since…” He looks away, sliding his hands in his pockets, which brings my attention to those narrow hips and— I drag my gaze firmly up. “Not since I lost my job a few months ago.”
A rush of sympathy runs over me and I usher him over to the counter. I hop behind it. Though he never answered, I put a chocolate chip cookie on a small plate and thrust it at him, and then I set the espresso maker for two cups, not one. There’s milk and sugar already out. “Did you work in a store?”
“Marketing, actually, but I was ready to move on, and…” He casts an eye over the crooked aisles of books that spread out from the center of the store. “You don’t need my life story.”
I grab my cookie slash breakfast from the desk where it’s been sitting as I’ve set up for the morning. The subway isn’t far from here, only half a block, and I usually get people coming in for their morning commute.
“Not to sound desperate,” he says, and his voice is low and soft and beguiling as he toys with the cookie on the plate I shoved at him, “but any money will be helpful.”
“It’s part time. I’m trying to stay afloat.”
“Rent,” he nods wisely.
“No, I own the building. It’s been in my family for a long time, but utilities and taxes are a bitch, and with the development company wanting to buy all and sundry and turn this into a store-bought cookie block, it’s getting harder.”
I blink, and take a bite of my cookie to stop myself chasing him off.
“I’ll take anything. It’ll really help.”
Truth is, I can’t exactly afford it, but running this place by myself seven days a week is something I also can’t afford. I need time to bake. I need time to scour for new stock. I need to set traps for the goons the billionaire uses to try and chase me from my home and business.
