Chapter 3
Shira
How is it that one little “darlin’” can turn me—a relatively strong and independent woman—into some sort of damsel who not only agrees to have a big, strong, handsome man come to her rescue, but actually wants it?
Especially a man like this: toolbelt slung low on his hips, scuffed work boots, worn jeans, unshaven jaw, looking like he just rolled out of bed. Totally not my type. At all.
“Wow,” Jonny says when we step through the door. “It looks like a real bookstore.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
This makes Jonny chuckle, but I put in too much blood, sweat, and tears—literally—not to take credit where credit is due.
And the bookstore does look good—white bookcases line the industrial brick walls on both sides, and all but the two wobbly ones are stocked with colorful books, organized by genre.
I arranged a few small tables in the middle to encourage browsing and help direct the flow of traffic.
One features a flat lay of books that are currently on the bestseller list, another has books by authors local to Texas, and a third features bookish swag and accessories that are perfect for stocking stuffers.
And my favorite part: against the wall of windows, I created a small children’s section with shorter, wider shelves, and stuffed animals inspired by characters from popular picture and chapter books.
It’s just missing something soft and cozy, like a colorful rug, so kids don’t have to sit on the cold, concrete floor to flip through books while their parents shop.
“It looks incredible,” Jonny says, and it sounds like he really means it. Then he smirks at me and adds, “But…is it normal for all the top shelves to be empty? Is that some bold new design trend I’m not aware of?”
My cheeks flush. “I ordered a stepladder, but it’s going to take three to five business days to get here.”
Same-day delivery and the ability to have anything from sushi to Starbucks dropped off right at my door are the number one and number two things I’m currently missing most about Chicago, after my friends, of course.
They’re going to lose their shit when I tell them I ran into the hottie from the taco place and that he works at the Christmas Market, too. It’s like a real Hanukkah miracle, Texas style.
“Good thing I’m here, then,” Jonny says, smiling. “I’m happy to be your designated top-shelf-reacher, after I fix those shelves.”
He walks over and puts a hand on one of the empty shelves, giving it a gentle shake. “Yep. Definitely wobbles.”
“Did you think I was lying to get you alone in here?” I ask, pulling the wrinkled instruction sheet from my pocket. “I followed all the cartoon pictures, but those little locky-spinny pieces aren’t easy to tighten.”
He grins. “The Cam locks?”
“If you say so.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a quarter. “Here.”
Jonny’s lips twitch as he stares at the coin. “I’m not sure if I should be offended that you’re trying to pay me or hurt that you think I’m worth that little.”
I roll my eyes the way I imagine Talia would. “It’s to tighten the locky-spinny pieces.”
“Cam locks,” he repeats, eyes twinkling. Then he whistles softly as he looks over all the other shelves. “You used a quarter to tighten all these? Girl, those pretty little fingers of yours must be aching.”
My stomach flutters. Somehow, he made that sound exceptionally dirty. And I think I like it. “Well, yeah,” I admit, flustered.
His grin widens, like he’s well aware of the effect he’s having on me, and probably most women in a hundred-mile radius. “Allow me to introduce you to a little thing called a flathead screwdriver,” he says, pulling one from his tool belt.
“See, if you’d offered me that yesterday instead of pie, we could’ve gotten somewhere.”
“Touché,” Jonny says. “I could make a joke about calling me the next time you need a good screw, but I won’t—because I’m a gentleman.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Sure, you are.”
He smiles, revealing his dimples. He’s clearly having fun with this, too. I flash back to the older woman’s warning last night. She’s right—Shira Schwartz doesn’t need Jonny McKay’s kind of trouble. But like Maya said, it could be fun to channel someone else for a month.
My whole life, I’ve gone for the sweet, nerdy, Jewish guys my parents expected me to be with.
Men from good families who have promising careers with robust 401(k)s, and who are respectful, almost to a fault.
The last guy I dated asked permission before he did every little thing in bed: May I lick your nipple? Is it okay if I add another finger?
A guy with this cocky confidence would definitely be different.
Shira wouldn’t be into it, but maybe “Sarah” would enjoy it?
Even get off on it? Like the girls keep reminding me—this month could go a lot faster if I let myself have some fun.
And Jonny seems like the kind of guy it would be easy to have some fun with.
It takes him less than two minutes to deconstruct the shelf that took me forty-five minutes to build, and about five minutes to put it back together. The second one goes down and up just as fast, and I wish there were more manual labor tasks I could get his help with.
Jonny doesn’t seem in a rush to leave either, because he moves over to one of the shelves I already filled with books and gives it a little shake. “Not bad,” he says, when it doesn’t budge. “I’m impressed you did this all by yourself.”
I straighten my shoulders and stand as tall as a five-foot-two woman in tennis shoes can. “What can I say? I’m tougher than I look.”
“You look pretty tough to me,” he says, that slight drawl sending a chill up and down my spine. “I mean pretty, comma, and tough.”
Oh. My. God. Grammar has never been so hot.
“Uh, thanks,” I say, forgetting for a second that I’m supposed to be channeling Talia and her flirtatious confidence. “I mean, I’m glad you were here. I’m pretty lucky the market has such a handsome handyman on the job.”
Jonny’s lips draw tight, just for a moment, and I hope I didn’t offend him. Is there a more PC title for someone who wears a tool belt and fixes things that are broken?
“I really do appreciate the help,” I say, trying to bring his smile back.
It works; that crooked grin reappears. “Well, I live to serve. Want some help filling these shelves? Now that they’re sturdy enough to handle it?”
I hesitate, wishing it were any section other than romance that needs to be stocked. I am not skilled enough to handle casual get-to-know-you banter over bodice rippers. “Oh, I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“The only other thing on my list is fixing a squeaky door,” he says, leaning against the bookshelf like he has no intention of going anywhere. “And maybe I’d like to hang out with a pretty bookseller for a while longer.”
A thrill runs through me, but I try not to let it show on my face. Flirting with Jonny is dangerously fun. Can I actually do this? Have a holiday fling with a hot handyman?
The girls are going to lose their minds.
“In that case, we can start with these,” I say, moving toward a stack of contemporary romance novels with deceptively innocent cartoon covers.
The first few are already in alphabetical order, so I hand them to Jonny, then work to get the next stack ready.
“How long have you been a bookseller?” he asks.
“Honestly?”
“My mama says that’s the best policy,” he says, flashing me a smile that reveals two deep dimples beneath the few days’ stubble on his cheeks.
“Well, then, this is officially my second day,” I tell him. “I work for the company that places pop-up shops like this in empty storefronts, but I’m usually on the back end.”
“Then how’d you end up down here in Nowhereville, Texas, for the holidays?” he asks. “Lose a bet? Draw the short straw?”
“Long story.” I bring my hand to my chest, where my Star of David necklace is hidden under my sweater. “But I’ve been an avid reader my whole life, so it’s not the worst thing.”
The words ring true, and I’m surprised to realize that I’m not as miserable as I thought I would be. The last two days have been really hard, and muscles I didn’t even know I had are aching, but there’s something rewarding about seeing the physical results of my labor grow around me.
And the more the bookstore has come together, the more excited I am about helping people find their next favorite book. Much to my parents’ chagrin, I’ve always loved losing myself in fictional worlds—which is kind of what I’m doing here.
Plus, being in Azalea means I’m not stuck in the office, pretending to care how the Bears did last weekend or that Conor’s jokes are funny instead of vaguely offensive. That’s probably the biggest perk of all.
I can hear Talia’s voice in my head, “Except maybe for a no-strings holiday hookup with the handyman…”
My cheeks warm at the thought, and I let my eyes linger on Jonny’s backside, wondering if I could really sleep with a man I know next to nothing about. Who knows nothing about me. Not even my real name.
We could be getting to know each other now. I search for something we can talk about, then glance at the book in my hand.
“Do you read?” I blurt.
Jonny looks down at me, then at the M/M cowboy romance I’m handing him to add to the shelf. His eyebrows lift.
“I don’t mean can you read,” I say quickly. “Of course you can read. I mean, do you read? Books. For fun?” Stop talking, Shira!
He chuckles. “I can read just fine. As far as whether or not I do read…” Something dings in his pocket, and he fishes it out, mouthing, “Sorry,” before answering.
“Yes, my dear?” He listens and nods, offering an occasional “Mmm hmm” to whoever he's talking to.
I continue stacking ACOTAR books in the correct order and try not to listen, but Jonny doesn’t seem to care—he doesn’t move away or lower his voice.
“No, no, it’s okay,” he says. “I’m at your beck and call until this baby comes.”
Baby?
I glance down at his left hand; no ring.
Not that that means anything these days.
Still, I can’t help but be a tiny bit disappointed.
“Sarah” might be more adventurous than Shira, but she would never hook up with a man who’s about to have a baby with another woman. The girls won’t fault me for that.
I keep listening.
“If you’re craving dilly beans, then I’ll stop by and grab some on my way home after I—okay, I’ll grab them now.” He shakes his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips, then ends the call.
“I’ve got to run,” he says to me. “But I can come back later? In about an hour?”
“No,” I say, too sharp. He blinks, surprised. And even though it’s a complete sentence, I keep rambling. “I’ll probably be done by then.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Okay…well, in that case, what are you doing tonight? I could give you a tour of the town. Take you to dinner?”
A few minutes ago, this would’ve felt like a win—he asked me out!—but now, all that fluttery excitement has sunk straight to the pit of my stomach.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” I say. “But thank you again for your help.”
Jonny’s staring at me like I’m the pages of a book he wants to read, but it’s written in a foreign language. As much as I’d love to translate it all for him, I turn and busy myself with organizing the rest of the books.
He doesn’t say anything else, and a moment later, I hear his boots echo as he walks out the door, going home to bring whatever dilly beans are to his baby mama.
It’s probably for the best. As much as I loved the idea of trying on a braver, bolder, more forward version of myself, that’s not why I’m here. I’ve worked too hard for this promotion; the last thing I need is a distraction—especially one who looks that good in a pair of jeans.
But it would have been fun...