Chapter 18
Jonny
When I was a kid, I used to wish I had a magic remote control for life.
One that would let me fast-forward through math class, mute my parents when they lectured me about responsibility, and change the channel whenever the day got boring.
As I grew up, I realized it wouldn’t be worth it, because all those moments—painful, beautiful, or complicated—shape who we are.
But right now, I’d give anything for that remote. I’d hit pause, hold the frame exactly here: Saturday morning, waking up in Shira’s bed for the first time.
She’s curled against me, skin warm under the sheets, dark hair spilling across the pillow.
Her breathing is slow and even, every exhale brushing against my skin like a secret.
There’s a softness to her in sleep that floors me.
Last night she was all fire and teasing and hands in my hair; now she’s a quiet miracle in the morning light.
I trace her shoulder with my thumb, memorizing the slope of it, the tiny freckles I hadn’t noticed before.
After what happened at the market last night, I knew there was no way I was leaving this woman to sleep in my childhood room alone, but I also wasn’t interested in sleeping in the bookshop and being caught in the morning.
So we dressed again, straightened ourselves up, and slipped out into the night.
When we reached her place, I got to unwrap her all over again, savoring it even more because I wasn’t frantic and half-blinded by desire. Instead, I was awake to every sound she made, every breath against my neck, every inch of her skin under my hands.
But it isn’t just her body that makes me lose my mind. It’s the way she laughs in the middle of kissing, the way she asks questions that crack me open, the way she looks at me like she sees straight through the bullshit I’ve built up over the years.
Now all I want is to stay in this moment with the sheets tangled around us, her heart steady against mine. Stay here where it’s simple. Where it’s safe. Where she’s warm and soft and mine.
I slide my palm down the smooth dip of her waist, to the swell of her hip. She sighs in her sleep and rolls closer, fitting herself against me. My heart lurches—an ache so sweet it almost hurts—and I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in.
“Mmmm.” Her voice is drowsy as she nuzzles into my chest. “I could get used to this.”
Me, too.
“How are you feeling this morning?” I murmur, brushing her hair back from her face. I’d happily let her sleep another couple of hours—God knows she deserves it after last night—but the market will be opening soon. It’s the final stretch, the last weekend before the holiday.
She blinks up at me, bleary-eyed and so damn cute. “So good.”
“Not too sore?”
Biting her lip, she hesitates, then shakes her head. “Not at all.”
I lower my brows. “Liar.”
She laughs, eyes shining. “Okay, yes, I’m sore—but in a good way. Reminds me of what you did to me.”
“Just say the word, and I’ll do it again.”
“Now, please.” She rolls to her back, stretching her arms and legs wide in a lazy sprawl. “I’m ready.”
I can’t help laughing as I roll on top of her, bracing myself on my forearms so I don’t crush her. “You need to get ready for work.”
Her eyes fly open. “Oh, shit—what time is it?”
“Nine thirty-five. The market opens at ten, right?”
She groans, draping an arm over her face. “Ugh. I need to shower. And wash my hair. I’m a total mess.”
“A beautiful mess.” I nudge her legs apart and settle between them. Leaning down, I brush my lips along her jaw. “I have an offer for you.”
“Mmmm?”
“How about you take your time getting ready, and I’ll open the shop.”
She sighs, half protest, half surrender. “No, it’s fine…”
“Let me take care of you,” I murmur, kissing a slow path down her neck. “You went through a lot last night. You’re probably pretty worn out.”
She lets out a soft snort. “Such an ego.”
“Ego?” I smirk. “How is it my ego when you were the one who kept saying things like, Don’t stop, more, please, yes…”
“Pretty sure that was you, Mr. Dirty Talk. Such a good girl, that’s right baby, deeper, tighter, fuuuuuuck…”
Laughing, I roll us over so she’s on top of me now, her hair falling around her shoulders, framing us in a dark curtain. “You liked it.”
“I did,” she says, leaning down to kiss me. “A lot. So yes, I will accept your offer. You can open the shop for me so I can shower and take my time getting ready. On one condition.”
I arch a brow. “Name it.”
She fixes me with those big brown eyes, lips curving slow and wicked. “How about you make something up to me? Last night, you refused to fuck me against the wall. And…my shower has a wall.”
I picture steam curling off her body, water beading on her skin. Heat licks down my spine.
“Shira…” I drag my thumb across her lower lip. “You’re not gonna be able to walk straight after all this.”
She grins. “Walking straight’s overrated.”
Forty minutes later—fifteen minutes after the bookstore should have opened, which frankly feels heroic given what transpired in Shira’s bathroom—I’m whistling as I walk in the back door to the market.
It’s already buzzing with kids darting between booths, adults balancing cups of coffee and shopping bags, and Christmas music playing.
I stop by the quilt and candle shops, slipping each of them some cash for the stuffI took last night, and keep moving.
When I reach the bookshop, there’s a mini-mob waiting. A couple of them I recognize, but most are strangers to me. That makes me smile, thinking of people driving in from other towns. Coming here to shop at our market.
“Mornin’, sorry about the delay,” I say, as I cut through the crowd.
A man with a handlebar mustache frowns at me. “Where’s Shira?”
“She’ll be here in an hour or so,” I tell him.
“Well, she’s supposed to help me pick out gifts for my daughters,” he says, sounding panicked.
“She ordered a cookbook for my mother-in-law,” Mrs. Hinshaw chimes in, following me with the crowd as I make my way over to the register.
“She should have some books on hold for me,” a man I don’t know says.
“She promised me we’d talk about the ending to The Silent Patient when I finished it,” Mrs. Landry says, holding the book aloft.
They’re all clamoring at once, and even though it’s overwhelming, I love it. Seeing her through their eyes, this smart, thoughtful, caring woman who knows exactly how to connect with each individual. They clearly adore her, and I get it. I feel the same way.
There it is again, that twinge in my chest, pride and longing and something scarier I’m not ready to name.
“All right, hold your horses,” I say, raising a hand. “One at a time.”
When Shira arrives an hour later, I’ve dealt with most of the customers who were waiting, and the bookshop is calmer, with just a few people browsing.
When she comes around the corner and spots me at the register wearing her red apron, her face breaks into a smile.
I find myself smiling back, goofy and wide and not at all cool.
But God, I love looking at her. All that glossy dark hair cascading over her shoulders, those full lips, that sweater that hugs her curves just right. I especially love that I got to see her come undone last night and again this morning.
And now a greedy, possessive part of me whispers that I don’t want anyone else to see her like that. Ever.
Mine.
Blinking that away, I smile as she walks up. She’s carrying a cupholder with two coffees and a bag from the bakery a few doors down.
“There you go, sir,” she says, setting them down on the counter. “Payment for your…assistance this morning.”
She grins at me, eyes twinkling like she’s thinking back to what we were doing earlier—her back against the tile wall, her legs around my waist. But there’s a touch of awkwardness in the way she stands, shoulders a little tighter, gaze flicking to mine and away again.
As though she’s not quite sure how this is supposed to go after the line we finally crossed.
I come around the counter, wrap my arms around her waist, and press a soft kiss to her lips. “I missed you.”
“It’s been like an hour,” she says, smiling up at me.
“Way too long.” I untie the apron and lift it over my head, then put it over hers. “Much cuter on you.”
I give her one more kiss, then step back before we get complaints for ruining the family-friendly atmosphere. “Your customers are nuts, by the way. Totally unhinged. But I did my best to help the ones I could. Took notes on the ones I couldn’t.”
“Oh?”
She leans in as I show her the notepad where I’ve been jotting things down.
“Mr. Martinez still needs recs for his daughters, but he gave me a few ideas to pass on to you. Mrs. Frandsen says she’ll swing by later today for the computer book you’re ordering for her?”
“Coding for Dummies,” she says, nodding. “It came in yesterday—I’ll call her.”
“Lindy Turner came in. Skipping Saturday morning chores to come to the bookshop, apparently. Kids these days.” I sigh and shake my head, mock-disappointed. “Anyway, she said you have a book for her, but she wanted to make sure it’s in a paper sack or something? No idea why.”
“It’s a romance between two girls who meet at summer camp,” she says. “She’s nervous about anyone seeing it.”
I nod, taking that in. “Beth Thompson stopped by, too. Apparently, her grandma was Jewish, and she’s wondering if you have any books about Jewish holidays? She wants to get one for herself and for her dad.”
Shira lights up. “Sure, I can find some.”
I continue down the list, and she listens, making notes and nodding as if she’s got all this under control.
“You’re incredible at this,” I say, when I finish.
She looks up, surprised. “I’m just selling books.”
“No, it’s much more than that. They trust you. They trust your recommendations. You know these people. They love you, Shira.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says, shaking her head. “But I have enjoyed it more than I expected.”