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The aroma of roasted coffee fills the air and I place a cup on the counter in front of him and load mine with lots of sugar. Sweet and strong, and a splash of milk. I lean on the counter and look up at him.
Magnus doesn’t put anything into his, just sets down the cookie and picks up the cup and takes a sip. “Thanks. There’s a lot of closed businesses here.”
“I know. EMS—that’s part of the vile Sinclair billionaire real estate family to you and me—is hell bent on buying the whole place up and turning it into something boring.”
He shrugs. “You could make a pretty penny.”
“There’s more to the world than raking in money.” I finish my espresso and take a violent bite of my cookie. “And this part of Bushwick has character.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he says. His soft smile takes the potential edge from his words.
I lean against the counter and look up at the ornate ceiling. Each floor has the same intricate ceiling, back from when detail mattered and beauty ruled over the mighty dollar. “This place’s part hasn’t been sullied by gentrification’s filthy hand.” Breathing out, I tell myself to get a grip. “I’m into mixing it up, that’s part of Brooklyn—the changing neighborhoods. But pricing the poorer people, the working class out creates problems and… I’m about to launch into a speech.” I grin. “But yes, there’s a job.”
“So this development company hasn’t tried to get you to sell?”
“Yes.” I take another vicious bite of the cookie. “They have.”
“So the job’s only short term.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I refuse. This is my place, and I’ve poured my entire life into it. I love the neighborhood and the books and I’m not selling. No goon is going to stop me.” I lean onto the counter a little further, as a small drop of water clings to that lock of hair on his forehead. “I’ll tell you this, though, if I don’t sell, then the whole thing’s going to fall apart.”
“I like your passion…?”
Heat floods me. “Zoey,” I say, holding out a hand, happy not to talk about the mess I’m in. “Zoey Smith, of the unknown Brooklyn Smith family.”
“Magnus Simpson,” he murmurs. “Nice to meet you, Zoey Smith of the Brooklyn Smiths.”
And his big, strong hand closes about mine.
For a moment I can’t think.
It’s a buzz of sweet electricity, this touch and it jolts me down to my toes. “Nice to meet you, Magnus. As I said, there’s a job, and it’s not for a week or two until I sell. I’m not selling. And if I don’t, others will back out. So.”
I smile brightly because damn, his touch fills me with a glow that feeds my blood.
“I need someone to help me out. Making it work with just me is hard. I can do it, but I’d really appreciate the help. It’s a regular old job. No brain surgery required.
“Ring up sales, make sure the coffee and baked goods are stocked, keep an eye on the upstairs. Help customers out. Most people know what they want. Some come in mainly to meander, like Tuesday Harry. He occasionally buys some books, but just prefers to mostly haunt the aisles, and I always give him a cookie or a muffin or a slice of cake and a coffee. His wife died last year and coming here gives him something to do. I don’t know where he’ll be going now, once his building’s sale is complete. And—”
Oh, God. I’m writing him tomes of things he doesn’t need. I glance down as I try to get what’s left of my brain together. Double oh, God. I’m still shaking his hand. I’m clinging to it like a lifeline. And I don’t want to let go.
I do. I’m not that crazy.
I catch a whiff of dark citrus laden with the subtle midnight scents of whiskey. Sweet and erotic and rich.
With a breath, I let go of his hand and take a step back.
But the man doesn’t run. He doesn’t even cast a furtive glance to the door. He’s still wet and it’s still pounding down rain out there, but he just smiles, looking about thoughtfully as he nods to himself. Then his onyx gaze rests on me and another jolt of warm electricity rushes through my bones, and my stomach dances the Charleston a moment.
“Maybe we could introduce your Harry to my gran,” he says, bending his head down a little to me, his voice low. “When she’s better.”
My heart squeezes and I wonder if his gran is why a man like him is looking for a part-time job. Maybe he looks after her? I don’t realize I’ve said that aloud until he laughs.
“I’m helping her out. She’s a wonderful woman. Gave up everything for me to get me ahead in life, give me a chance. So I want to give back in her time of need.”
“Is… is she sick?”
Magnus is quiet for a while and I’ve a horrible feeling I overstepped, but then he offers a small smile that breaks my heart.
