Chapter 7
Sylvie
The movers are nearly done by the time we get back to the bookstore. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s my new home.
Not even an apartment, not really, because it’s mine.
I own it, through some weird stroke of luck that I never in a million years would have believed would happen to me.
I don’t think I’ve ever won anything before, not even the potluck chili contest my library hosted. Although, honestly, my mint brownies deserved to win the dessert portion.
Whoever said chocolate and mint don’t belong together should probably have a tastebud replacement. I feel more sorry for them than the cilantro-tastes-like-soap people.
“You okay?” Aiden asks, glancing up from the delivery order that nearly beat us to the apartment.
“You like cilantro, right?”
“Uh,” he pauses, narrowing his eyes at me. “Yeah?”
“Good. We can’t be friends if you don’t like cilantro.”
He tips his head back and laughs, then shakes his head. “Glad I passed that very weird test. Alright, let’s eat.”
He guides me up the back stairs, and I soak in the adorable entry space of my very own brand-new (very old) home. Wrought-iron railing, a black and white tile floor, and creaky wood stairs that I am incredibly thankful I didn’t have to move anything up.
“I don’t know how I managed to get this lucky,” I tell Aiden, likewise grateful I’m no longer just talking to myself. “Like, this all just… fell into my lap. My mailbox, quite literally. It’s the weirdest thing ever, and I’m afraid if I think too hard about it, it will all just disappear.”
“This place has been empty ever since I moved here four years ago,” Aiden tells me. “I don’t know how you managed to luck into it either, but I think you must be the right person for the job. How else can you explain it?”
“Do you believe in fate?” I ask him, then wrinkle my nose as I walk through the arched opening that leads into the main living area and kitchen.
“That’s almost like asking if you believe in magic.
” I laugh at myself. “But yeah, I don’t know who owned it before me.
It’s been in trust for decades, apparently.
Maybe longer. It was hard to get any information on, honestly. ”
Which annoys the hell out of me, as someone who prides themselves on their research ability.
The kitchen table I’ve had since senior year of college sits in just the right spot for it, the mismatched chairs I’ve collected and refinished over the years pushed into it.
The kitchen itself is full of boxes that need unpacking, and I’ve never been happier to get to eat takeout without guilt than this moment.
In fact, I’m pretty damn happy all around.
I set the paper bags full of cat accessories down, knowing I should feed the skinny black cat before I dig into my own spicy drunken noodles.
The minute I crack the can of wet food, the cat comes running, tail held high in the air as she makes the funniest little mewling yips of excitement.
While I fill up her new water bowl, Aiden surprises me by dumping the litter into the box and putting it in a small, empty closet near the bookstore door.
“You did not have to do that,” I tell him.
“Well, I spent today with you instead of cleaning my toilet, so I had to satisfy the urge somehow.”
I bark a laugh, surprised at the callback to my earlier inane comments about cleaning the bathroom, and after we’ve both washed our hands, I pass out our food like we’ve been friends for years now.
Which is weird, right?
It feels like I’ve known Aiden for a long time—maybe because adrenaline and anxiety made me skip the normal small talk portion, or maybe because he’s just easy to get along with.
“Thanks for helping me today,” I say, more emotion than I planned on leaking through the words. “This was a great way to settle in.”
“It was my pleasure,” Aiden says, mock bowing, a massive smile on his face—then dumps a ton of basil-strewn fried rice onto his plate. “Spring rolls?”
I pass him the cardboard takeout box, and he hands me a pair of chopsticks.
For a few minutes, we’re totally silent, and it’s the amicable silence of two people who don’t feel the need to fill it.
Which means I can fully concentrate on my drunken noodles. They’re an ode to Thai food, truly, the perfect texture paired with the perfect spice level, just enough to make me nearly break out in a sweat but not so hot that the rest of the flavors are lost.
I chew with my eyes closed, just so I can fully concentrate on how freaking delicious it is. When I open my eyes again, Aiden is staring at me, chopsticks paused near his mouth.
I swallow hastily. “What? Do I have noodle on my face?”
I brush the back of my hand over the corner of my mouth, but it doesn’t come away dirty.
Frowning, I glance back at him, but he’s busy eating his own food like he wasn’t just staring at me.
Maybe I’m just imagining his staring—or, more likely, he’s noticed something disgusting hanging from my nose and is too polite to tell me about my foul booger.
That feels likely. Spicy food tends to bring out the worst in my nostrils.
“Websites,” Aiden says suddenly, and I try to surreptitiously dab my nose with one of the horrifically textured takeout napkins. It’s like wiping with tree bark.
“Websites,” I repeat, giving up on the booger. “I don’t know how to make them.”
“You need a domain. Have you decided on a name for your bookstore? Branding? Inventory? If you’re going to try to sit in a certain niche?” He frowns, then takes another bite.
“A certain niche?” I repeat. “Like, a genre? I figured I’d have a little bit of everything, see what sells, then buy more of that.
Probably a lot of romance, because that’s a billion-dollar industry, but I like reading all the genres…
except maybe non-fiction. I don’t love like… the Ted Talk type of non-fiction.”
“Okay, I think that’s fine. I don’t know as much about books.”
“Do you read?” I ask him, then laugh as he gives me a consternated expression. “I didn’t ask if you could read, I figured you knew how. I meant for fun.”
“Yeah, sometimes. Not as much as I should.”
“Good, good, I will make a reader out of you yet.” I rub my palms together like a cartoon villain, which means my chopsticks nearly fly out of my grip in a very violent fashion.
Aiden, surprised, glances up with wide eyes.
“I didn’t plan on shish-kebabing my eye tonight, but I’d want an audience if I had,” I deadpan.
He coughs, choking on his food, and then covers his mouth, raising a hand.
“Please don’t die,” I tell him as he slowly figures out how to breathe again. “I would hate for my new place to be haunted so soon.”
“So you are open to a haunting, then, just not right now?”
I frown, about to tell him it was a figure of speech—except it’s not really a figure of speech, just a shitty joke. “Huh?”
“Do you not know about New Hopewell?” he asks, genuine surprise making his eyebrows arch. “You didn’t Google us?” More fried rice goes in his gob, and he’s clearly over his near-death choking experience.
I’m not. I don’t want someone to die on my watch.
“Of course I Googled,” I say, suddenly feeling defensive.
Guilty, even, because while I did look up the town, and the town website which is under construction, I probably could have done a hell of a lot more research.
“I just, ah, was a little distracted by packing up my whole life and moving here.”
He holds his hand up in mock surrender, grinning as he swallows. “No need to get prickly, porcupine.”
I blink, unsure as to how the hell I resemble a porcupine, and frown at him.
Aiden spreads his palms on the pocked surface of my old table, and I can’t help but notice again that they’re big hands. Really big.
Which is a silly thing to focus on, so I blink and try to listen to the words coming out of his mouth instead of thinking about how those big hands would feel on my skin— when he’s not checking me for a supposed allergic reaction.
He has a puzzled expression on his face, and I fan myself.
“Spicy,” I croak, jerking my chin at the takeout container of noodles in front of me.
“Water?” He pushes a cup towards me and I grip it with both hands.
I have got to stop thinking about hands. His hands, specifically, on my knees. My neck…
“Are you okay?” He has a concerned light in his eyes. “I don’t think I got you milk, but there’s a store that’s open later. Most shops close early downtown, but I bet I can—”
“Sorry, yes, just got distracted.” By your hands. I don’t say it out loud, though.
Bully for me.
“I don’t need milk,” I rush to finish. “Sorry. You were going to tell me about… ah, New Hopewell?” I wince, fervently hoping that supposition is on the money.
He laughs, a deep, throaty sound that sends a little rush of awareness down the base of my spine.
“Well, the one claim to fame New Hopewell really has is that we’re considered the most haunted place in Texas.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Haunted?” I repeat. It rings a bell, but my analytic brain must have breezed right past it.
“Yeah, like ghosts and that kind of shit. My partner, Jack—he says he’s seen some things.
His wife’s hotel is supposedly really haunted.
That’s why he named our place The Salt Circle.
” He shrugs a muscled shoulder, and my attention is nearly wholly diverted from ghosts to the very corporeal man in front of me.
“I don’t understand how a salt circle has anything to do with…” I wave a hand. “Whatever. I thought it was like, a margarita thing.”
He laughs again, and I grin in response, feeling warm all over despite the creepy conversation subject matter.
“Apparently Em, that’s his wife, thought her place —and her hotel— were really haunted, and once she even dropped a massive rock salt circle around the house.
Used up something like twenty ice cream salt boxes.
” He laughs, and my nose wrinkles. I have a feeling this Em and Ivy would get along great.
Ivy is always doing weird stuff like that.