8. Levi
Levi
M onday at five PM and I can’t concentrate on inventory. The numbers blur together as I try to reconcile book orders with actual sales, but my mind keeps drifting to her across the street.
I set down my pen and lean back in the chair behind the bookstore counter.
How long have I been circling around Sadie like some Victorian gentleman conducting a courtship through pressed flowers and meaningful glances?
River’s been teasing me about my “coffee delivery service” for weeks now, and he’s not wrong.
I’ve been too afraid of disrupting our routine to actually ask for what I want.
Which is more time with her. Real time, not just ten-minute coffee exchanges twice a week.
My phone buzzes against the counter. When I see Sadie’s name on the screen, my pulse quickens.
Is there anything I could help you with at the bookstore? As a thank you for all the coffee and help with the flood cleanup?
I stare at the message. She’s offering to help. Which means she’s thinking about ways to spend time with me. Maybe she’s been thinking about us as much as I’ve been thinking about her.
I could suggest organizing the front displays or updating the bestseller wall. Instead I find myself typing.
Actually, yes. I’ve been putting off inventory for weeks. Could use another pair of eyes if you don’t mind staying after closing time.
Her response comes fast. Perfect. What time?
Eight PM? I’ll leave the back door unlocked.
See you then.
Three hours. I have three hours to decide if I’m finally going to be honest about how I feel, or if I’m going to keep pretending this is just friendly help.
I spend the time alternating between rearranging the reading nook and talking myself out of being nervous. By eight o’clock, the space looks different in evening light. Softer, with shadows pooling in corners and lamplight catching the spines of well-loved books.
I’ve set out wine and two glasses on the counter. Not obviously romantic, just thoughtful. The inventory sheets are spread across the table in the reading nook where we’ll have to sit close together.
At eight exactly, I hear her knock at the back door.
When I open it, my brain goes blank.
She’s changed from her work clothes into dark jeans that hug her curves and a cream sweater that looks impossibly soft. Her honey-colored hair falls in waves around her shoulders instead of being pulled back.
But it’s her scent that hits me hardest. That sweet honeysuckle and vanilla I’ve memorized over months of coffee visits, now richer with an undertone that makes blood rush south.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless.
“Hi.” I step aside to let her in, trying not to inhale too obviously as she moves past me. “Thanks for offering to help with this. I know you’ve had a long day.”
“Thank you for letting me.” She looks around the bookstore, taking in the wine and glasses, the carefully arranged materials. “This looks much more pleasant than most bookkeeping I’ve done.”
“I believe in making tedious tasks more bearable.” The words come out steadier than I feel.
She turns to face me with a smile, close enough that I can see her pulse fluttering at her throat. Close enough to catch how her pupils dilate slightly when she breathes in my cedar and leather scent. “That’s a philosophy I can appreciate.”
We look at each other and tension builds between us. When she notices the wine, her expression brightens.
“Wine for inventory?” she asks with a small smile.
“I figured if we’re going to be counting dusty books, we might as well make it pleasant.”
“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that nervous gesture I’ve learned to recognize. “Where should we start?”
“Historical fiction section,” I hear myself say. “It’s the most complex to track since the inventory system doesn’t account for series properly.”
She follows me to the back corner where I’ve arranged everything, settling onto the cushioned bench beside the low table and tucking her legs under her. The position makes her sweater ride up slightly, showing a glimpse of soft skin at her waist that makes my hands ache to touch.
I pour wine while she examines the inventory sheets, trying not to stare at how the lamplight catches gold highlights in her hair. Her scent wraps around me, making it hard to focus on anything but how she worries her lower lip between her teeth when she’s concentrating.
“This is quite a collection,” she says, accepting the glass. Our fingers brush during the handoff and electricity shoots up my arm, while her pupils dilate in response. “You have authors I’ve never heard of mixed in with classics I loved in college.”
“Historical fiction is a passion of mine,” I admit, settling beside her close enough to catch her full scent but not so close that I’m crowding her. “Stories that find meaning in ordinary moments between extraordinary events.”
“Like what?”
I reach for a well-worn copy nearby and flip to a marked passage about loyalty forged through shared struggles.
“This author writes about how people create family out of necessity and choice. It reminds me of how you’ve built community here.
How you remember what everyone needs, how you show up when people are struggling. ”
Her sweet scent deepens and understanding dawns in her expression. Color rises in her cheeks.
“The coffee twice a week, how you happened to be walking past when the roof leaked. You’ve been taking care of me.”
“You noticed.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“I noticed.” Her voice gets more intimate. “It was the most thoughtful thing anyone’s done for me in a long time. You never made it feel like charity or pity, just... kindness.”
“You deserve kindness, Sadie. You deserve someone who pays attention to what you need.”
“Do I?” The question comes out more vulnerable than she intended. As if she’s genuinely uncertain about her own worth. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just good at convincing people to care about me temporarily.”
The uncertainty in her voice makes protective instincts unfurl in my chest. How can someone so gifted at reading what others need be so blind to her own value?
“You don’t convince anyone of anything,” I say, shifting closer until I’m near enough to catch her full scent and see how her breathing quickens.
“You just are who you are. Someone who creates beauty and notices when people are struggling and makes everyone around you feel important. That’s not a performance, it’s just you. ”
“You really see me that way?”
“I see you as you are. Someone worth knowing, worth caring about, worth the kind of attention you give everyone else.”
The admission hangs between us, more revealing than I intended but honest in a way that feels necessary. Her scent turns sweeter at my words, arousal mixing with that floral warmth until I’m drunk on her proximity.
“Levi.” My name on her lips sounds like prayer and promise combined.
“We should probably...” she starts, then stops as if she’s forgotten her thought.
“Should probably what?”
“Focus on inventory.” But even as she says it, neither of us reaches for the papers scattered across the table, and neither of us looks away.
“Is that what you want to focus on?”
“No.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to want.”
“What do you mean?”
She sets down her wine glass carefully, buying time to find the right words. “I mean I’m not used to having options. To having people in my life who care about different parts of me without expecting me to choose or prioritize or figure out how to be fair to everyone.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“It is. I think.” She tucks hair behind her ear in that nervous gesture I’ve learned to love. “I just don’t know how to navigate it without overthinking everything or worrying that I’m leading someone on.”
“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. You’re allowed to just be here with me without it meaning anything more or less than what it is in this moment.”
“And what is it?”
I take a breath and choose honesty over safety. “It’s someone who cares about you hoping you might want to discover what that could mean.”
Her breath catches, and I can see her pulse jumping at her throat. “What do you want it to mean?”
“I want to know what you taste like. I want to find out if you hum when you’re content the same way you do when you’re working with flowers. I want to read to you on Sunday mornings and bring you coffee that’s actually good instead of whatever you make in that ancient machine upstairs.”
Heat flares in her eyes, and her scent spikes with arousal and surprise mixed together. “Levi.”
“What do you want, Sadie?”
She looks at me for a moment, weighing possibilities and consequences, finding the courage to be honest. “I want you to kiss me.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.
The kiss starts gentle because I want to give her time to change her mind, but she meets me halfway with a sigh that goes straight to my cock.
She tastes like wine and vanilla and her own sweetness that I want to memorize, and the moment her hands fist in my shirt to pull me closer, everything inside me snaps.
Months of careful restraint, of bringing coffee and pretending casual interest, of watching her from across the street and wanting what I couldn’t ask for. All of it burns away in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
I surge to my feet, pulling her with me, and she gasps against my mouth as I back her toward the nearest bookshelf.
Her scent explodes around us. Sweet honeysuckle in full bloom mixed with arousal so potent it makes my vision blur.
The omega scent I’ve been dreaming about for months, finally directed at me, finally without barriers or politeness or the careful distance we’ve maintained.
“Levi,” she breathes, and my name sounds desperate and full of need.