Chapter 12
Emma Jane
Two weeks ago, I kissed Knightley Austen for the first time.
Though kiss isn’t the right word I should use to describe the encounter. I accidentally attacked him with my mouth after his truck rejected me from entering. Our teeth clinked together, his nose went into my eye, and our foreheads bounced off of one another.
It’s what happened AFTER that chaotic episode that still has me reeling.
He didn’t push me off.
In fact, his hands slid from my back to hold me up from underneath, and he closed his eyes and sighed.
Sighed!
Right into my open mouth.
And it wasn’t a groan of pain. It sounded like pleasure…
It was in that exact moment I learned something new about myself.
You see, I never understood the appeal of kissing, much less anything more.
I had kissed a total of two guys, and they were good kisses according to Lucy, my romance-loving friend.
This kiss was anything but a normal definition of good, but my body reacted as if it was.
Tingled. Wanted more.
I was teetering on the edge of letting that feeling take over, but thankfully, the salty, metallic taste of blood erased the desire.
The ride back to my house was roaring with awkward silence. Mostly because both of our lips were bleeding, so we had old napkins from a restaurant I had shoved away in my purse pressed to our faces. He dropped me off at the house and then left without saying another word.
And for the past two weeks, anytime we unintentionally bump into each other (not physically—we haven’t gotten remotely close enough to one another for that to happen), our topics of conversation revolve around three things:
One, the weather. (It’s like taking a shower from hell outside.)
Two, the election. (He’s still performing with lower poll numbers than Jay regardless of becoming extra small-town famous for running down Main Street to stop the bad man from hurting the damsel in distress, i.e., me.)
Three, his dates with Mallory. (He seems to enjoy being with her, so I’ve kept my feelings locked down tightly.)
The bell above the door sounds, so I rise from my elbow-propped position on the barista counter.
Knightley strolls in, waving to customers and showing off his suave smile as usual.
When he’s at the counter and turns his full attention on me, the smile dissipates as if it was only a figment of imagination.
“Americano?” I ask, already reaching for the twenty-four-ounce to-go cup. He nods, then places both hands on the counter.
“Janie?”
His low-toned use of the nickname only he calls me startles me, and I end up spilling espresso beans all over the floor.
That’s a future Janie problem, however.
“Hm?” I go about my business, collecting more beans.
Why is he affecting me like this all of a sudden?
Sure, I made him pretend to marry me when I was five and he was eighteen, but what little girl doesn’t do that with the trusted older men in her life?
Heck, before it was him, I said I was going to marry my dad.
See?
Little Janie can’t be trusted.
Gah, quit calling yourself that! Say it with me: Emma. Jane.
The point is that Knightley has never had this hold on me. He’s never made me lose my balance or drop things. That’s for the clumsy romance heroines Lucy writes. Not me.
“I’m going to ask Mallory to officially become my girlfriend.”
The monster that arose from my soul when I saw her get out of his truck that night makes the briefest of reappearances before I force her down.
Yes, she’s a her.
And I think I’ll call her Mother Gothel. It’s fitting. Selfish, conniving Mother Gothel.
“Congratulations.” I’m speaking, but the voice belongs to someone else entirely.
Mother Gothel, probably.
I’m not doing a great job of keeping her at bay.
I focus on making his drink while he talks.
“Thank you. Why don’t you go ahead and use our story for your website?”
After taking a steadying breath—okay, more like five—I turn to him with his Americano in hand. When he takes it from me, our fingers brush, as they have a gazillion times in the past.
But this time, the heat from the coffee cup somehow spreads into my chest.
“That’s a great idea.” I paste a smile on my face as I stare at the man who admittedly becomes more handsome each time I see him.
His beard is full and trimmed. Hair styled back effortlessly.
Don’t get me started on the way he fills out that cream, collared shirt.
And there’s a faint mark remaining on his bottom lip where my tooth stuck him two weeks ago.
Does he look at it and think of me?
Oh, dear good and glorious things above, Emma Jane. Why are you thinking that? He probably sees it and hopes I never get that close to him again.
Age gap. He's the mayor of a whole town. He’s practically family. He likes Mallory. Thinks she’s pretty. Wants to make things official with her.
Brunette and brown-eyed. Tall. Slim.
Whereas I’m short. Platinum blonde and gray-eyed. Have man-shoulders and thick thighs. I can even grow a mustache! Thanks again, PCOS.
“I’ll ask her to email you her statement tonight after our date.” And with that, he takes his coffee, and I watch his fine butt—it’s those navy dress pants, friend—walk out of the building as if he didn’t just pull the pin from a grenade and set it on the counter to detonate.
The urge to go to battle consumes me, and I stop myself from marching out that door with trumpets blaring and drums beating to get him to turn around and see me.
See me as more than what I am.
More than I believe myself to be.
I like him. It’s worse now that I realize I like him.
But he’s unattainable.
And now he’s unavailable.
Did I lose my chance by not laying all my cards on the table?
“Emma Jane, dear. Is everything okay?” Mr. Sam, the elderly owner of Books and Beans, hobbles to the counter. I zoned so far out I didn’t hear him come in. He looks at me with concern in his light brown eyes, his bushy gray eyebrows raised.
“Of course, Mr. Sam. What brings you in today? Can I make you some tea?”
“Yes, dear.” He slowly makes his way over to sit down in one of the comfy chairs by the bookstacks. I make his typical herbal green tea then walk it over to him, sitting down in the chair beside him since no one is in the cafe at the moment.
“How have you been? It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen you.”
He blows softly on his tea. “My daughter came down for a visit and is insisting I move down south with her. Says I can’t get along by myself.” He harrumphs. “Told her I can’t up and leave this place.”
I nod along as he talks, trying not to let my brain entertain the idea of owning this place.
I have countless ideas on how to make this place even better than it is, and Mr. Sam has allowed me to implement some of them, like the incandescent lights and replacing the walls with floor-to-ceiling windows.
But I don’t ever want to overstep my position as manager.
His soul is connected to this place through his deceased wife.
“Have you thought about selling, Mr. Sam?”
He grunts, but it’s not an angry grunt. More of an “I don’t want to face that thought” grunt. He finally says, “I want to make sure I have the right person to sell to.”
A spark of excitement forms within me. “What if you sold it to me?”
He eyes me warily. “You can afford to buy it?”
“Yes,” I say confidently. I know Papa would think this is a good investment and would help me out. “And I would continue the great work you’ve accomplished here.”
“Eh, I don’t know, Emma Jane. I don’t know if my heart is ready to let it go.”
“I understand, Mr. Sam. Until you are ready, just know I’ll continue taking care of Books and Beans with my whole heart, okay? I love this place. Friends, families, strangers, and lovers connect here. It’s a beautiful and magical place in our town.”
In a rare show of affection, Mr. Sam smiles and places his hand on my shoulder. “That it is, Emma Jane. That it is.”
“Well done, Emma Jane. Your app is simple enough that even an old lady like me could join if I chose to.”
I clasp my hands together, eyes growing wide as I stare up at Jane Austen.
“You could be my next beta member! Since it’s worked so well for your son and all.” The twinge of bitterness in my voice is drowned out by my excitement over the idea of matching Jane with an eligible man.
“If I chose to,” she reiterates, giving me a pointed glare.
Her white hair is styled into a neat bun on top of her head, and her clothing is shades of brown and black.
She resembles Professor McGonagall from Harry Potter, and the thought crosses my mind that I could run theme dates through the app for people who enjoy the same fandoms.
“So choose to.”
Jane laughs and then begins to massage my shoulders.
I groan as I feel the tension I’ve carried since “that night” release, loving that she’s the kind of woman who will tend to your needs without having to ask.
Jane is like a mother to me. Between her and Halle, I have been well taken care of, and the thought puts me at ease.
When I miss my biological mom, though I never knew her, remembering I have these two ladies in my life comforts me.
“I’ll put ‘gives an outstanding massage’ on your profile.” I moan as her thumb digs into my shoulder. “You’ll have a match in no time.”
Jane chuckles and spends a few more minutes working my neck and shoulders before she moves to sit across from me in the sitting room. “You found my son a match, did you? He hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
“Her name is Mallory Granger, and she’s a wonderful woman…” Gosh, I hate myself right now. Jealousy saturates my system like deadly snake venom.
Jane is silent, her brows pinched in contemplation. “Are you sure they are an item? Knightley’s not one to keep secrets from me, but I do think he’d wait until he knew for sure to tell me.”
“He’s going to ask her to make things official tonight.”