Chapter 13
Dax
Sometimes when the going gets tough, the tough tuck it into their belt. Right now, it’s not just tough, it’s hard. Very hard. Hard enough that I opt for jeans instead of slacks simply because jeans are thicker and better at hiding things.
I can’t stop thinking about Libby. Obviously.
Libby on the ladder, reaching for the top shelf.
Her perfectly plump ass tight as she stretched herself just a few more inches.
Her long, dark hair cascading in waves down the curve of her back.
The way she looked when I spun her around to face me, took her by complete surprise and planted a kiss on her unexpecting lips.
God those lips. The woman is a biological enigma. She tastes like strawberries. Without fail. As a rule. And don’t get me started about how the rest of her tastes. If I let my mind wander there, not even double-ply Levi’s will keep my secrets under wraps, if you know what I mean.
I walk into the shop with a mission on my mind.
First, a contractor that Kai hired is going to help me figure out the layout for the new book shelving.
As charming as Libby’s hand-made, hand-painted shelves are, they’re not Hemingway and therefore, they’re not going to cut it.
Not only that, but the scuffed oak flooring looks like it’s been here since the Boston Tea Party and that, too, is going to need a serious makeover.
And second, a construction contractor is meeting me to talk about knocking a hole in the wall, leading into the other building where a coffee shop is actively being built.
My hope is we will have a nice archway separating the two and making it all feel like one, hopefully without compromising the integrity of the buildings themselves.
God knows Boston real estate is old, especially on Beacon Street.
The moment I walk into the shop, I see her. Libby is wearing a black and pink floral dress that comes off her shoulders and flows down to just below her knees. With it, Converse. Because she’s her. And Libby is like no one I’ve ever met.
But while Summer and Tom aren’t here, we aren’t alone. There are no less than six men in hard hats, a little overkill, I admit, and in the middle of the store, a table has been set up with an entire flock of loud, energetic women.
Also, the whole place smells like cookies.
“Good afternoon,” I say, as I pass the cash counter where Libby is counting bills.
“Daxton,” she says curtly in between mumbled numbers.
“Did we close early?” I ask.
Libby’s eyes stay on the money, and she waits to answer me until after she’s finished a stack of fives. Then she slams the drawer shut and looks at me.
“I closed early, yes. For the monthly Sugar and Spice Book Club. If you read the flyer on the door, you’d know that.”
I’m not sure why, after what happened between us the night before, Libby is being so salty. I would think she’d be appreciative. But it solidifies one suspicion I have been mulling over for the last almost 24 hours–
She saw my phone.
Libby has no idea who Delilah is, and honestly? I don’t plan on telling her. I like to keep my life neatly compartmentalized. And the Delilah part of my life has a padlock on it. End of story.
Either way, I can see why that might have her upset.
“A romance club, huh? Sounds fun…”
I don’t mean to sound sarcastic but unfortunately, that’s kind of just the way it comes out.
It’s not that I don’t like to read. But aside from high school required reading– I think it was Romeo and Juliet, which is, in my opinion, NOT a romance at all– I have never read anything in the lovey dovey category. I also don't plan to.
“Have you ever read a character, aside from Christian Grey, that made you want to update your vibrator collection more?!” a woman blurts out before shoving a sugar cookie in her mouth.
Case in point.
Libby takes in a labored breath and lets it out exhaustively. “Why are you here, Dax?”
You mean aside from the fact I am buying your store and have a grand opening date fast approaching?
Obviously, I don’t say that. She’s already pissed enough it seems. Which, to be quite frank, sort of pisses me off too.
“So boss, these shelves are bolted to the wall,” Frank, the contractor says, slapping his palm against a sage green shelf.
“Not just anchored?” I ask, stopping in front of him.
“Nope. Screwed in. And the screws–” he goes on, pulling several of the books from the middle of the shelf and shoving them in another spot. “Are stripped.”
“Damn,” I say as I narrow my eyes to look inside the book shaped hole. “So, we are going to have to–”
“Cut through.” He finishes the sentence I don’t want to say.
“Excuse me,” Libby’s voice comes from behind us and it’s a matter of seconds before she is standing next to us, a less than friendly grin on her face.
“Hi, yes. Two things. One, we are trying to have a book club, if you didn’t notice.
And all the talk about destroying my shop is a little bad for business, and also?
Kind of killing the mood. And two,” Libby turns so she is looking directly at me.
“You’re not turning my dad’s bookshelves that he made BY HAND into firewood. Okay? Okay!”
With that, she claps her hands and goes back to the table of women who are all cackling on about whether they’d rather smash Jamie Dornan or Sebastian Stan.
I look at Frank who raises a single, furry eyebrow as if to say are you really going to let her talk to you like that?
I choose to ignore both Libby’s words and Frank’s judgement.
“Let’s see if we can save the shelves. There must be a way.”
I pat him on the shoulder and make my way through the store, over to Charlie who is measuring the side wall with a tape measure.
“How’s it looking, Charlie? Tell me good things.”
“This wall is weightbearing,” he says with the tone you’d use to tell someone that their grandma died.
“I’m aware.”
“So, we can’t knock it out.”
“Also, aware. We discussed this, Charlie. We are leaving the wall, adding an archway.”
“A door,” he states.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“We can’t afford to knock a hole bigger than a regular door because the beam–”
Charlie’s voice is drowned out by laughs and screeches coming from the smut club. I turn my head, my eyes no doubt brimming with fire. Libby is standing next to the table, munching on a cookie, and her eyes flash to a smile.
She knows I am annoyed. She knows I can’t hear or think or focus.
She licks chocolate off her bottom lip– slowly– and her eyes never leave mine.
She knows what she’s fucking doing alright.
And she’s loving it.
“What about you Libby?” one of the women asks her. “Do you think size matters?”
My eyes are on hers. Hers are on mine.
“I think a lot of things matter…but it’s good to have someone to compare you know? Try all the flavors before deciding on a favorite.”
My jaw grits and I know she fucking sees it. Before I can act on it, before I can throw her over my shoulder and show her just how many flavors I come in, I turn back to Charlie.
“Why can’t we put an archway here?” I bark out. But his answer is again muffled.
“Because of position of–”
“Hang on,” I snap, marching over to the table. “Libby. Can I talk to you?”
All the women stop, staring up at me with wild eyes and open mouth smiles.
“Alone,” I add and that really throws them over.
Jesus fucking Christ they’re like seagulls at a beachside diner.
“Of course,” she answers lightly and follows me down the short hallway that leads to the bathroom and the stockroom.
“What the hell are you doing?” I grit out the moment we are alone.
“Having a book club. You?”
“I am trying to figure out the logistics of the revisions. Or have you forgotten that your little bookstore is owned by Hemingway now?”
“Oh, I remember. But if you remember, in the contract, it states that I am allowed to keep my store open to the public for as long as is safe. And until your little hard hat friend goes smashing down a weight bearing wall with his big boy hammer, I will be open. Open to customers, open to story time, and open to romance book club.”
I bite back a bitter smile and nod a couple times. “You are something else, you know that?”
Libby folds her arms and tips up her chin. And god-fucking-damnit it takes everything in me not to kiss her. As pissed as I am, it’s the only thing I want right now.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” she says coyly.
“It wasn’t,” I staple out. “I am trying to get work done. And your horny little friends are very, very distracting.”
Libby giggles at that and I don’t know if it pisses me off more, or turns me on. Maybe both. “What’s the matter, Daxton? All this talk about smut getting you hot and bothered?”
“Bothered, yes. Hot? No.”
Libby lets out a disbelieving mm and starts to walk away. But before she can, I grab her by the arm and twist her around, like a smooth move in a swing dance, and before she sees it coming, I am holding her against me.
“Don’t…play with fire,” I say.
But Libby doesn’t waver. “I should be saying the same thing to you.”
“How so?” I ask, still holding her in place.
“I’m not stupid, Daxton. I know I’m not the only woman you’ve involved yourself with recently. And I’m not here to get played. I won’t be the next girl you use and toss aside before moving onto the next. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m working.”
So, she has seen my phone. Still, it doesn’t mean she knows what she’s talking about. Unfortunately, I won’t go there. I can’t. So, I let her go. And just as I do, my phone goes off. I pull it out and pinch my eyes shut, knowing full well she saw it that time too.
Poppy.
Of course.
My fucking life.