Chapter 4
FOUR
CLARK
The reading had been a revelation.
Not just because Flynn had agreed to host it, though that had been surprising, but because of what I'd seen in those moments. He’d answered the children’s questions so carefully. He hadn’t talked down to them but treated them like real people.
And when he’d said, "It wasn't terrible" about the experience I could have hugged him. I wanted to but had held back. He was a soft touch under that gruff exterior, and he had no idea how obvious it was.
A few days later I was walking past Turning Pages on my way to nowhere in particular. Through the window Flynn was at his usual spot behind the counter, bent over his computer. His hair was doing that thing where it stuck up in the back, like he'd been running his hands through it in frustration.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the door.
"Hey.” I waved, hoping he couldn’t hear my pounding heart. "How's the post-reading recovery going?"
He looked up. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased to see me but that barrier slid into place and his expression became more neutral.
“There was no permanent damage.” He pointed to some shelves. “I found the last of the goldfish crackers this morning."
"In the poetry section?"
"Philosophy, actually”
Now I had to figure out what to say next because he wasn’t helping. "What are you working on?"
Flynn shuffled papers spread across the counter. "Quarterly inventory. Trying to figure out what's selling versus what's just taking up space."
I leaned against the counter, careful not to disturb the paperwork. If I breathed too heavily or sneezed, they might fly onto the floor and we would have to get on our knees and retrieve them. Come to think of it, that mightn’t be a bad idea but I couldn’t do it to him. He preferred order.
"Find any surprises?"
"A few." He picked up a sheet and frowned. "Apparently I sold more poetry last quarter than I have in the past two years combined. No idea why."
"Maybe people are feeling more romantic lately," I suggested. "Or perhaps they're stressed and need an emotional outlet."
He got a faraway look in his eyes as if he was considering what I’d said. Had he no clue that people might buy books for emotional reasons rather than intellectual ones? “I suppose that makes sense."
"You know.” I was struck by an idea, "I helped my friend Saul reorganize his inventory system last year. If you want a second pair of eyes on any of this, I'm pretty good with spreadsheets."
His hands stilled on the papers. "You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to. I want to." I kept my voice light, hoping he wouldn't read too much into the offer. "Besides, I'm curious about how independent bookstores work. Research for my next project."
That wasn't entirely true. My next book was about a lonely lighthouse keeper, not a bookstore owner but Flynn didn't need to know that.
"Your next project?"
"I'm thinking about writing something for older kids. Middle grade, maybe. A story about someone who finds community in unexpected places."
Flynn's eyes met mine briefly before he looked away. "That sounds... nice."
"So, can I help? I promise I won't reorganize anything without permission."
He hesitated, and I could hear his mind churning as he weighed the benefits of assistance against the risk of letting someone into his space.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have someone double-check my math,” he said. "But I'm warning you, it's incredibly boring."
"Flynn.” I settled onto the stool he'd pulled out from behind the counter, "I write children's books for a living. I once spent three hours researching the migration patterns of butterflies for a single sentence. Boring doesn't scare me."
That earned me another almost-smile.
Wow! We were going to be working together for a while, side by side. Yippee!
For the next two hours, we went through the inventory sheets.
He was methodical and precise, catching errors I would have missed and explaining his categorization system with the kind of detail that suggested he'd been doing it for years.
I was better at spotting patterns in the data, pointing out seasonal trends and suggesting which sections might benefit from expansion.
"Look at this.” I highlighted a section of the spreadsheet. "Your science fiction sales spike every few months, but always around the same dates. What happens in March, July, and October?"
Flynn leaned over to look at the screen, close enough that I could smell his soap. Not cologne because that was too in your face and he was the opposite. Definitely soap and it was clean and understated just like him.
"Comic conventions.” He rubbed his jaw. "There's one in the city every few months. I never made the connection."
"You could probably increase those sales if you timed your science fiction orders better. You could reach out to some of the convention organizers about cross-promotion."
Flynn made a note on his pad, his handwriting as neat and precise as everything else about him. "That's... a good idea."
Gold star for me. “I have my moments.” I was pleased by the genuine surprise in his voice.
We fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, him explaining the intricacies of book ordering and distribution while I offered suggestions from my author perspective.
He had strong opinions about which publishers and distributors were reliable.
And he understood which books were worth the shelf space they occupied.
“You love your work.”
“I do but it’s the whole process and not just the books themselves, but the business of connecting books with readers." He launched into a detailed explanation of why he refused to carry a particular bestselling series.
He paused mid-sentence, looking almost surprised by his own enthusiasm. "I suppose I do love it. It's a puzzle. Figuring out what people want to read, sometimes before they know it themselves."
"That's exactly what good booksellers do," I told him. "You're not just selling books, you're curating experiences. Creating connections between stories and the people who need them."
He studied me as if he was seeing me, not the author and not the person who’d been helping him out. "Is that what you think I do?"
"I know that's what you do. I saw it when I did my reading and it shows how you've organized this place." I pointed around the store. "Every section tells a story about the kind of reader who might find something they love here."
He was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands. When he looked up, there was a vulnerability in his eyes. He needed a hug.
"Most people think I'm just antisocial. That I don't like customers."
I flapped my hand in the air, dismissing what he’d said. “Most people don't pay attention. But you're not antisocial, Flynn. You're selective. There's a difference."
He ducked his head, but not before I caught the hint of a smile. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true. And because you need to hear it."
We finished the inventory review as the afternoon light started to fade, and I reluctantly began gathering my things. I didn't want to overstay my welcome, especially when Flynn seemed to be warming up to having me around.
"Thank you.”
I shouldered my bag.
"For the help. And for..." And his voice trailed off.
I finished the sentence for him. “For seeing what you're doing here instead of what people assume you're doing?"
"Something like that."
Now I was ready to take this to another level. "Would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime? Not for business reasons or anything. Just... because."
I held my breath while he processed it. His fingers drummed against the counter, a nervous habit I noted before.
"I..." He gulped. "I don't really do coffee dates."
"Not a date," I said quickly, though part of me wished it could be. "Just coffee. Between friends. If we're friends. Are we friends?" Now I was babbling.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose we might be friends."
"Great. Coffee between friends who happen to both like books and might enjoy continuing conversations about inventory management and butterfly migration patterns?"
"When you put it like that.” He grinned. “It sounds kinda nice.”
"I'll take that.” I had to name a time because if I left it to him, he might never pick up the phone. "Tomorrow afternoon?” It was Sunday and he was closed. “There's a good place two blocks down that's usually quiet."
"Quiet is good. Three o'clock?"
“I’ll be there. It's a not-date."
As I walked home, I couldn't stop smiling. Flynn Tolliver had agreed to coffee. Not because he needed help or because Janine had cornered him into community involvement, but because he wanted to spend time with me.
Maybe Miranda was right and I was reading too much into things. But he'd said we might be friends and he'd made time for coffee despite being someone who valued his solitude. It was progress.