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“I don’t want to make your job impossible, but I have customers. Is there any way you can take a look at the account and give me a call in a few days?” I’m already looking at the customer behind him, waving them forward. “We can discuss options then.”
“You won’t screen the call?” he questions, knowing I will.
“Ask me again and I might,” I answer without eye contact, ringing the next customer’s books.
The bell above the door jingles as he walks out, and I feel like, even in this awful heat, I can breathe again.
CHAPTER NINE
IT’S A DATE
EZRA
Somethingabout this place feels so far from the city.
People don’t speak loudly; they don’t bump into each other. They take their time, like consideration is their priority.
And walking among them, in a T-shirt and shorts, makes me feel like I belong in this ebb and flow. This slowed down version of life where easy living comes naturally.
“Timmy, watch where you’re going,” a woman calls after a young boy after he nearly bumps into me.
My smile is met by a pair of stern eyes as the woman gathers her child and ushers him away from me.
It’s a reminder that Idon’tbelong here, with these people who only deign to change instead of desiring it.
I miss the freedom and anonymity of the city and wonder what the hell I’m doing here when I see her, a phone against her ear and a paper bag in her hand. Chinese food, by the looks of the paper menu stapled to the brown bag. Her face isn’t stoic, the way it usually is when she isn’t actively engaged in something that delights her. Which is rare.
I haven’t seen her smile since the day I met her.
Right now, her face is pinched together in frustration as she rushes across the street, her long dark locks trailing behind her frame.
She walks like she doesn’t know how fucking beautiful she is—like she’s some object people maneuver around, barely tolerating her.
I watch as she unlocks and pushes the bookstore door open, and before I can think better of it, I’m crossing the street, holding my hand out to the car honking at me.
I should leave her alone.She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to see me. Everyone on this strip has either turned me away or told me to fuck offbeforeturning me away. But this quaint town with its lakeside properties is a hotbed for tourists, projected to potentially make me millions with the right maneuvering.
And this woman, with her wallflower ways, excites me in a way that is completely separate from all of this. When Ivan went back to the city, alone, I stayed behind, feigning the desire to keep trying to win over the locals. In the days since the last time I saw her, I tried to think of ways to somehow end up right where I’m headed without looking like a crazed stalker.
An anxiousness I didn’t know I was capable of feeling sits in my chest as I open the door, the bell jangling over it signaling my presence.
“I’ll be right with you!” she shouts from somewhere in the back.
I assume she’s inside some sort of office or storage room, and I walk toward the door that’s cracked open, wondering what has her attention. I should respect her privacy, but my desire to know everything about her has me forgoing proper etiquette.
“I understand.” Her voice is a murmur. Not the kind that’s telling secrets. The kind that’s hiding one. “That isn’t an option for me.”
I’m not sure what’s being said on the other end, but the way her hand reaches up to cover her mouth says it isn’t good.
“How long do we have?” From where I stand, I can see her profile and her eyes widen at the answer. “Seriously, Ben? Two months?”
She nods, even though the person on the other end can’t see her. “Yes. I’ve already sold anything I’m willing to part with.” Her hand hits her thigh, and I watch her body bend toward the top of her desk. “No. I’m not giving up the house.”
Silence.
She’s still as she receives whatever the person on the other end is saying, and then, “Please save yourself the trouble of explaining to me that this isn’tyourdecision.” She slams her cell down on the desk and taps it a few times, likely making sure the call has ended. “Shit,” she mutters to herself. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
The wheels in my mind are turning just as she spins, as if remembering someone had entered the store and she’d have to cancel her pity party—panic party, rather—for now.
