Another Story (Second Chance #4)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

I’M TROUBLE

ELOISE

Sweat rolls from my neck toward my breasts as I fight the urge to fan myself with one of these beloved books.

The buttons on my linen dress have been fastened lower than usual, the top of my lace bra peeking out, but no one’s coming in here anyway. Modesty is low on my list of priorities tonight, with human interaction being minimal most days.

It’s even rarer that a man offer patronage to this fine establishment.

Owning and running Bordeau Books , known for catering to romance readers, doesn’t make for an awful lot of male interaction.

Bordeau Books: Where you always come first.

The slogan was my mother’s doing. I didn’t have the heart to change it, even after the car accident that left this place in my possession at such a young age.

My eyes fall on the book I’d been reading earlier, before I stopped to stock shelves, and I sigh as I pick it up. The pages have yellowed, the thick width of the spine decorated by the dust it’s picked up over the years. When I found it, rummaging through my older sister’s things, I couldn’t help but take it from her, wanting to relive those days.

And the book was doing its job, bringing me back to a time when she and I weren’t just tolerant of each other, but close.

Now I can hardly make conversation with the girl I once called Sophie, who stood in front of me again two weeks ago as a woman named Elizabeth, my younger sister Kitty in tow. She claimed they want to help with the dying bookstore that they left me with to chase their big city dreams.

I should continue with stocking, the box of books next to me behind the register reminding me that this is why I’m here anyway. But I need—I deserve—a break, I tell myself as I lean over to turn on the desk fan. With the paperback in hand, I perch myself on the edge of the stool.

It was my idea— of course —to work during the annual Fourth of July celebration, in spite of Kitty’s insistence. I reasoned that working at night when the sun wasn’t beating down on the store would make the labor a little easier.

They’re out there, enjoying themselves— of course —and here I am, trying to make sure we’re still open for business.

It’s what our parents would’ve wanted.

I’m just opening the paperback when a group of loud kids pass, no doubt headed to the festivities. When they smile and wave, I offer them a polite tip of my chin.

And then I moan, trying to wish the heat away.

The stuffy air makes me want to prop the door open, but I decide against it, lifting one foot to place on the desk instead and tipping the chair back.

I curse the universe for my inability to afford to fix the air in here in time for the summer months, despite all the work I’d put into making this place a safe haven for romance readers.

My resigned sigh barely makes it out by the time I’ve reminded myself that it’s pointless to pity myself. I’m no one’s victim.

I’m a young woman who’s single-handedly turned a once fast-failing business into one that’s survived the technological era.

Like patching up a blown tire so it’s only a slow leak.

I hear the crack of the story’s old spine as I settle back into a headspace I’m more comfortable in.

With the book against my thigh, I start to head off into this fantasy world of love and lust and men who rip clothes off of willing female bodies.

But the thing about fantasies is they don’t last forever. So, when the bell over the door jingles, signaling someone entering the shop, I force a smile on my face. Although we technically aren’t open, I’m willing to sell to anyone wanting to purchase.

Until I notice it’s a man. Color me shocked.

I can’t see his whole face—only his promising profile—his shoulder to me as he peruses the area.

What looks like gray cotton covers broad shoulders. His twill shorts fit perfectly enough for me to witness the curve of a sculpted ass, and my eyes follow every movement the rest of his body makes. The slow sweep of his arm as he pushes his dark hair away from his forehead. The way his bicep rolls into a compact mound that makes my lips purse, as if I’m brave enough to blow them a small kiss.

He’s turned away from me now, and I wonder what he thinks of this space as I eye his exquisite calves, sprinkled with coarse hair.

The shop isn’t big, but I’m proud of the work I’ve done here, the signings I’ve organized, the social media presence I’ve built to make sure this place gets recognition from all over the world.

Because we’re not only fighting against bigger bookstores, but online retailers.

Still, Bordeau Books is an experience; the stacks of stories are organized in ways to get readers excited, the decorations minimal but lending to the bookstore’s overall aesthetic. I love to let the exposed wooden support beams and the large windows enhance the store’s beauty. And the authors who’ve come here to sign have given us bursts of clientele, some who have become loyal customers.

It hasn’t been enough to change the impending fate of this store, but perhaps our luck is changing.

“Welcome to Bordeau Books,” I greet, leaning forward to set my own book on the counter.

He turns as soon as I speak, his gaze zeroing in on my face for a moment until it travels down, over my cleavage showcased by my many undone buttons, down my torso, to my propped leg, the front slit of my dress leaving it bare to his stare.

“Anything I can help you with?” I ask as he nears, bringing my leg down so I’m no longer tilted back, and adjusting my dress.

He has a dark aura. Dark hair, thick, dark eyebrows, and dark lashes that frame bright green eyes.

His steps seem measured, they’re so purposeful. But he has a grace about him that makes me think he’s dangerous.

Powerful.

I’ve read about men like him, never knowing what one looked like up close.

Confident.

My relationships with men in this town are nearly nonexistent, making my experience with the opposite sex limited. These are the same guys I watched date and dismiss my classmates and get into trouble. The same ones who picked on me when I had braces and acne. Now that these were things of the past, I had no interest.

I always assumed I’d one day travel the world and find love that way but, I never left.

My sisters had been the ones to go while I stayed behind and tended to our mother’s dreams, coaxing the bookstore into the new age of online competitors and the like.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t resentment.

For my lack of freedom, my lack of life and love experience.

But the man approaching the desk doesn’t seem to be lacking in anything. He doesn’t offer words. Only a quiet smirk until he reaches me.

“Just looking for a break from the crowd,” he answers, his voice skating over me like the sweat sliding down the back of my neck.

“Yeah, it can get pretty hectic,” I offer, unable to look away as he lets his smile rest where it remains.

His eyes say hello.

His mouth says I’m trouble.

My brain doesn’t give a damn.

“Seems that way.”

He turns and I try my hardest to ignore how soft his T-shirt looks, stretched over what looks to be a body that knows labor. I fear the heat is making me delirious, but I know I haven’t had sex in so long, I wonder if I remember how to anymore.

“What’s your story?” he asks me as he attempted to peruse near where I’m sitting.

The chuckle that erupts from me wreaks of nerves and stops short when he glances over his shoulder at me. “What do you mean?”

He’s pulls a book from its place on the shelf closest to me. I’m familiar with the premise and when his brows raise, I adjust my skirt again.

No man so attractive should be in this shop alone with me, reading about a reverse harem as I mentally salivate over him.

He sets it back and takes one of those audible breaths that doesn’t seem to do anything more than lead to words. “I mean, does it compete with the one I just picked up?”

“As in, do I sleep with five men at the same time?” I uncross my legs, only to cross them again, reveling in the way his eyes follow the movements. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my life is much tamer in comparison.”

His laugh is the loudest thing I’ve heard in a long time, and it’s as assaulting as it is sexy. Head back, chin up, body following that sound of humor in a way that has me smiling.

“I wasn’t being literal…” He brings one hand to the back of his neck, eyes widening and brows raising a fraction while his other hand gestures toward me.

Should I?

Should—

“Eloise,” I offer.

He doesn’t repeat it, much to my disappointment.

“And you’re…” I catch myself leaning forward and acknowledge my interest. Not just in his name, but in him. In his voice, in his laugh, in the way his body looks in this hot-as-hell room.

There’s already a sheen of sweat coating his neck. I can see it as he shifts under the lights.

I want to taste it. To put my tongue on his pulse and feel his life’s source.

“My name is Ezra.” There’s a deep richness to his voice, and when it’s absent of laughter, it’s almost directing.

This man was, after all, able to get my name from me without properly asking for it.

But when it’s tinged with humor, it pulls you in to want to laugh as well.

“Are you going to answer my question?” he asks.

His words yank me from my assessment, and I shrug, even though his tone makes me want to try to.

Something about him makes me ache to please him.

People in this town are wary of strangers. But I welcome the connection to the outside world. And I welcome this newcomer like a kid wanting to open a brand-new toy.

I’d love to play with him.

“I don’t know how to answer it,” I reply. “No one’s asked me that before.”

And it’s true. No one bothers to ask about me because they either grew up with me or are intimidated by my resting bitch face.

If I’m being honest, the bitch in me isn’t reserved for only my face.

“Such a shame,” he murmurs, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

“What’s the shame here?” I wonder aloud. I may be a small-town girl, but I don’t enjoy being baited.

Yet, here we are.

“The idea that you’ve been overlooked. Shoved in some bookstore when you belong out there, breaking some poor man’s heart.”

Laughter threatens to crack through the moment. The only men I ever let close enough to break my heart are the ones I read about in the stories that surround me nearly every day.

“And if they’ve broken mine?” I ask, wondering what pitiful state he could imagine me in; wondering if he’d paint me as a damsel in distress, the brush in his hand worn from his work.

“You’re not the type,” he says, the smile on his face telling me he’s reading me like any one of these stories that fill the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pushes off from the wall, and I wonder how attraction could become so palpable, it’s like a third person in the room.

“You like to ask a lot of questions for someone who can’t even attempt to answer one,” he says.

“And you like to speak in riddles and pretend they truly mean something,” I fling back his way, satisfied with my wit.

His snicker has me smiling now.

“See?” he says. “Not the type.”

And maybe he’s right.

But he doesn’t have to know that.

“Ezra,” I start, admiring the way his eyebrows draw just a little at the sound of his name. “Would you care to accompany me to the fireworks?”