Honeyed Fables

1. fallon

ONE

fallon

G rowing up, I always dreamed of living abroad. Sitting outside a small cafe in France and flirting with gorgeous dark-haired men who spoke to me in poems and lies would be the crème de la crème way of living.

Instead, I grunt and curse as I stand on a short stepladder, pushing to the tips of my toes to reach for a large box of books on the tallest shelf. “This doesn’t belong here,” I mutter. Later, I would make a point to chastise Thomas, my assistant manager and best friend. If I don’t die by falling off the ladder and getting crushed to death by books beforehand.

Thomas often places boxes out of my reach, so I’ll finally hire someone to assist with incoming stock. But that would require me to trust someone else with tasks that I can handle just fine. At five feet four inches, tackling the constant new shipments takes away time needed for other things—like owning and managing the store. But the idea of training and learning to trust another person…

“Thomas,” I croak loudly. I am itching to wipe the sweat beading my brow. My arms are shaking from the weight of the box filled to the brim with hardcovers. Even with my Pilates and cycling classes, my muscles are useless against thousands of pages.

I hear Thomas before I see him. I know he’s standing in the backroom doorway, most likely smug from watching me struggle. “Fallon is capable of hard things…” he chants with a snort, enjoying the sight of me seconds away from imminent death. His teasing is always as predictable as the sunrise, but it never fails to amuse me. Except for right this second.

My platonic soulmate, Thomas O’Leary, is as beautiful as he is cruel. Okay, to be fair, he isn’t evil—aside from this particular moment. He just has a strict intolerance for bullshit toward everyone else, which always makes for exciting inspections of anyone who wants to date me. But beneath his tough exterior is a warmth to Thomas that only I can bring out.

Six-foot-something, the naturally perfect shade of ginger hair, brown eyes, and an unfair complexion of milky skin—which he keeps pristine with an impeccable skincare routine—Thomas belongs on the cover of magazines, not by my side every moment of the day. Yet, here he always is. Taunting me.

“Are you seriously giving me affirmations right now?” I plant my palms against the side of the box to keep it from falling on my head. “I’ll fire you if you don’t come here right this second….”

“And then, who will discover your body?” he interrupts while slowly dragging his feet toward me. “It’ll be weeks.”

I rest my forehead in the crook of my wobbling arm. “We have a constant stream of customers, Thomas. I think it’d be sooner than that. Would you please just?—”

Before I finish my final plea, Thomas is beside me, his left hand planted firmly between mine on the box. “Hire someone. We can afford it.”

I clench my teeth. “No.”

He removes his hand, again leaving me with the entirety of the weight. “Thomas?—”

“Hire. Someone.”

I huff through my nose and narrow my eyes. I’m not in the best position to argue with him, though even that wouldn’t usually stop me. But for the sake of my arms and life, I grit my teeth and snap, “ Fine .”

He flashes a brilliantly triumphant smile, his pearly white teeth gleaming. I hate him, yet I still find myself burying a grin as I remove my hands from the box and place my feet on solid ground. Thomas is tall enough to not require the ladder, of course. “I don’t know how Ansel stands you,” I mutter, leaning back against the shelf behind me.

“I’m incredible in bed,” he responds quickly, effortlessly retrieving the box and balancing it against his stomach. “Why do you think he’s always in such a great mood when he stops by? You should try it sometime.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Experiencing you in bed?”

“Christ.” He looks as repulsed as me but then shrugs. “If it’d help you loosen up, I’ll take one for the team.”

I roll my eyes. “Fuck off. Place those hardcovers on the ‘As seen on Socials’ table. They’re signed, so they should sell quickly.”

Thomas lifts the lid off the box, annoyingly balancing the entirety of it in one arm as if it weighs nothing. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

“I was nice.” My grin turns smug. “And I met the author’s agent at the book convention in Los Angeles last year. We bonded over the newest episode of Lies, Lies, Lies . He came to town a couple months ago, and we met for dinner. He offered to send me a box of signed copies…”

“In exchange for?”

“Prime placement on a table, of course.”

Thomas raises an all-knowing eyebrow at me. “Right, of course. Because one of the year’s biggest books needs prime placement at a small bookshop in New Hampshire.”

I pretend to be offended by his remark. “We were voted as the business to watch this year. Did you not see the article?”

“The one you had framed? The one hanging by the front door for everyone to see? Nope.”

Ignoring him as he follows me out of the storeroom, my mind wanders. Because, as always, Thomas was correct in assuming that Ryan Solomon, the agent in question, wants more from me than just prime placement for his author—as evidenced by the multiple texts he’s sent me and the not-so-subtle attempts at exchanging nudes. I’ve managed to avoid it so far. I always have an excuse for him: I’m at work, the gym, or in public. The most I’ve given him is a quick mirror snap of me in a two-piece set while at Pilates. He responded with a drool emoji and eggplant.

It’s not that Ryan is unattractive. He is, in fact, gorgeous. He grew up in California and has the tanned surfer look about him—bright blond hair and all. And though I haven’t asked for his pictures, he’s sent me plenty of him shirtless. Plus, I follow him on socials. He often posts himself working out on his stories, which explains why he has so many equally beautiful women following him and commenting on his posts.

I just have no interest in being another face. Well, I’m highly competitive. Putting effort into ensuring I’m the only apple of someone’s eye doesn’t intrigue me. And Ryan gives the vibes of a conqueror. Once he has me, he could easily be onto the next. Perhaps I’ve read too many books—a hazard of the job—but I want someone who doesn’t require… maintenance. If I belong to him, I expect the same in return.

“Probably why I’m single,” I mutter. Thomas is used to me often saying unfinished thoughts aloud after drifting into silence from overthinking.

Thomas drops a book onto the table with a sigh, jarring me enough to stop what I’m doing to glance at him. “You’re single because you’ve attached yourself to this store, Fallon Madison.”

I snort. When we met, Thomas was instantly drawn to the fact that I have two first names as my first and last names. He uses them often as if he’s a parent reprimanding a child. “I’m building something, Thomas O’Leary. It’s barely been a year. I’m still ironing out the kinks.”

“It’s time you found your own kinks, Mads.”

I scowl while retrieving the empty box from the floor. “Are you implying I need ironing out?”

Thomas takes the box from my hands and nods to the front of the store as young girls enter and make a direct beeline for the Young Adult section. “I meant in bed. ”

I lower my voice. “Your obsession with my sex life lately has reached new heights.”

“Just trying to help you save money on batteries.”

My jaw drops, rendered utterly speechless, as Thomas saunters to the storeroom.