Chapter 2
TWO
CLARK
I'd been staring at the bookstore for ten minutes before working up the courage to go inside.
Turning Pages sat wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store on Lantern Street, its forest green exterior and hand-painted sign giving it an old-world charm that made my writer's heart skip.
The window display featured a selection of literary classics and local histories.
It was exactly the kind of independent bookstore that was a dying breed.
Which was probably why I'd been procrastinating about this visit for weeks.
I shifted the canvas bag higher on my shoulder and checked my reflection in the coffee shop window one more time.
My hair wasn’t sticking up and my sweater was free of coffee stains.
I’d practiced my pitch enough that I could probably recite it in my sleep.
There was no reason to be nervous about talking to one bookstore owner regarding carrying my books.
Except that this wasn't just any bookstore owner.
I'd first noticed Turning Pages six months ago when I'd moved to town, but it wasn't until last month that I'd actually caught sight of the owner.
I'd been walking past with an armload of groceries when movement in the window caught my eye.
A tall, dark-haired guy was arranging books on a display table.
He was probably in his mid-thirties so around my age with a lean build that suggested he stayed active despite spending his days surrounded by books.
I'd noticed him humming along to music from his earbuds and I’d bopped along too.
Even from outside, I could see the concentration on his face and how he tilted his head slightly when considering where each book should go.
Something about that moment had stuck with me.
Maybe it was the obvious care he took with his work, or how the afternoon light caught the sharp line of his jaw.
Whatever it was, I'd found myself walking past Turning Pages a lot more often, usually with some excuse about needing coffee or browsing the vintage shop next door.
I'd learned a few things during my casual stalking.
His name was Flynn and he lived above the store because I'd seen him highlighted in the upper windows during evening walks.
He kept regular hours but seemed to work alone most of the time.
His hair always looked like he'd been running his fingers through it, and he dressed in layers as though he was constantly cold.
And he was gorgeous in a brooding way that had my brain conjuring up soulful poetry.
The bell above the door announced my entrance, and the guy didn't even look up. He was focused on a spreadsheet and spun a pencil in one hand with practiced efficiency. The dismissive body language should have been discouraging, but honestly, It just made me more curious.
When he finally glanced up after my greeting, I got my first close look at those gray eyes. He had the kind of bone structure that belonged in a Renaissance painting but there was something softer around his eyes as if he was perpetually tired or worried about something.
My prepared speech completely evaporated.
He assumed I was job hunting, which wasn't surprising given my age and the way I was hovering nervously by his counter. Get it together, Clark. I managed to explain about the books, expecting the usual polite brush-off that most store owners gave to unknown authors.
But Flynn's reaction was different. More abrupt, like he'd built walls specifically to keep people out. Not authors like me but people in general.
When I showed him my dragon book, something changed. He handled it carefully, really looking at the illustrations instead of giving it a cursory glance. Those long fingers turned pages with a reverence that told me everything I needed to know about him. He understood books on a fundamental level.
I was convinced that he was lonely as I studied his expression when he examined the cover. He was similar to my dragon.
The comparison slipped out before I could stop myself, and for a moment his guard dropped completely. I caught a glimpse of something vulnerable underneath all that control.
But the walls slammed back up, and he was shoving my book across the counter like it had personally offended him.
But I'd seen what was underneath. Flynn wasn't just grumpy, he was protecting something. And perhaps that something was himself. Or it might be his carefully ordered world, or maybe his right to exist without having to meet other people's expectations.
I gathered my books and made a graceful exit, leaving him with the dragon story and my contact information. As the door chimed behind me, I couldn't shake the feeling that something important had happened, even if I couldn't pinpoint what it was.
The coffee shop next door was busy with the usual afternoon crowd, so I ordered a vanilla latte and found a table by the window where I could see Turning Pages without being too obvious.
My phone buzzed with a text from my editor asking about the progress on my next manuscript, but I ignored it in favor of watching the Turning Pages storefront.
Was I being creepy? Probably a little. But there was something about Flynn that I couldn't shake, and it wasn't just his looks. I recalled him handling my book and the attention he'd paid to the illustrations as well as the moment when his guard had dropped.
Plus, there was the way he'd spoken my name. Just "Have a good day, Clark," but he'd said it as if he was trying the words out and seeing how they felt on his tongue. Like maybe he'd been thinking about me too.
But I was being silly. He’d probably forgotten I existed.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a call from my best friend Miranda.
"Please tell me you finally asked out the mysterious bookstore owner," she trilled.
“I asked him to stock my books." I stirred my latte. “I didn’t come on to him.”
"Uh-huh. And how did that go?"
"He said no."
"But?"
I sighed. Miranda knew me too well. "But I think he looked at the book. And he didn't throw me out immediately, which is progress."
"Clark Branigan, you are the most optimistic person I know, but even you can't turn every grumpy stranger into a love story."
"I'm not trying to turn him into anything." That was mostly true. "But I think there's more to him than the whole surly loner thing."
"There usually is. The question is whether he wants anyone to see it."
Miranda had a point. His walls weren't just high, they were reinforced with steel and topped with barbed wire. Whatever had made him so defensive ran deep, and it was going to take more than one conversation to break through.
But I'd noted the way he'd looked at my book and the careful attention he'd paid to the story. And I'd definitely seen that moment when his expression had changed and I imagined him remembering what it felt like to connect with someone.
"I left him a copy of the dragon book.”
"The one about the lonely dragon who learns to share his stories?"
"That's the one."
"Subtle."
I laughed. "I'm not known for my subtlety."
"No, you're persistent and that’s either charming or stalker-ish, depending on the situation."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"I'm just saying, maybe give the guy some space to process. You came on pretty strong to someone who obviously values his privacy."
She was right, as usual. He struck me as someone who needed time to think things through as opposed to someone who appreciated being pushed into quick decisions. If I wanted any chance of getting to know him better, professionally or otherwise, I needed to let him come to me.
But that didn't mean I couldn't be visible.
I finished my latte and spent another hour working on my laptop near the coffee shop window, supposedly editing my next manuscript but I was enjoying the view of the bookstore.
Around four o'clock, I glanced at him through the window, talking to an elderly man.
Flynn's demeanor was different than with me.
There was no tension in his shoulders and his expression was almost friendly.
Had his gruffness with me been personal?
When I finally packed up my laptop and headed home, I made sure to walk past Turning Pages. Flynn was alone again, bent over some paperwork at the counter. As I passed, he looked up and our eyes met through the window.
For a second, neither of us moved. Then he gave me the smallest nod. It wasn’t what I’d call friendly but more of an acknowledgement. I hoped he was thinking about my book or my offer. And if he was, perhaps he’d think about me.
I smiled and kept walking, but that tiny nod felt was a victory.
My apartment was only a few blocks away. It was a small one-bedroom above a bakery that always smelled like fresh bread and cinnamon. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and it was perfect for a writer who needed quiet space to work and dream.
I made dinner and spent the evening working on my next book, but my mind kept drifting back to Flynn.
The way he'd held himself so carefully it seemed he was afraid of taking up too much space.
The moment when he'd actually smiled, just barely, when I'd called him selective instead of antisocial. And when I left, he’d remembered my name, even though I'd only introduced myself once.
Maybe Miranda was right and I was reading too much into a simple business interaction. Or Flynn was as curious about me as I was about him.