Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The temperature rose to peak summer and never dropped, not even at night.
Days blurred into weeks. Kat announced that I was allowed to get bangs now, but the urge had passed.
I worked and went to class. I became a member of the American Booksellers Association and started taking additional classes, studying their materials behind the circulation desk.
Macon read them, too, because they were there, and so did Mika.
I helped her and Bex screw together the bed frame, hang the window shades, and install the micro-kitchen—mini fridge, tiny sink, narrow counter, upper cabinet, lower cabinet, two-burner stove—and they helped me search for a business location.
Three potential properties were available.
One we ruled out immediately. The space was decent, and it had the most affordable rent, but it was situated on a side street downtown that tourists never noticed and that most locals didn’t even know existed.
It was an alleyway of melancholia, a monument to failed shopkeepers.
We all agreed the energy was too ominous.
The other two properties were mixed. There was a beautiful storefront on a fairly prominent street downtown, but the space was on the small side and the rent was at the highest end of my budget.
The more reasonably priced location also came with significantly more square footage, but it was located in a sterile strip mall.
The neighborhood was popular enough, but the Tick-Tock Bookshop had been downtown, and I’d been imagining my store there, too.
It was easy to make an argument for either property.
Mika argued more for downtown and Bex more for the neighborhood, but they both waffled.
A decision had to be made, and I did not feel equipped to make it no matter how many times the property managers unlocked their doors for me.
I began to lose sleep again, fearing that both locations would soon be claimed by other renters and I’d be forced to lease the shop in the alleyway.
Yet somehow—I don’t know how—I still managed to make it back over to Macon’s for a grueling day and a half, during which we primed and painted his living room.
The change was staggering. The dark green walls felt both naturalistic and lavish.
It was like standing beneath the sheltering canopy of a dense forest but also like standing inside the library of a very old, very moneyed estate.
However, the bookshelves still needed to be built, and he still needed dining room chairs, as well as all the curtains and rugs.
I apologized yet again for leaving the project incomplete and for the fact that I had no idea when I might be able to return.
Most likely, it wouldn’t be for months. Even more likely, next year.
“I waited twelve years before doing this much,” Macon said, gesturing around. We were wearing our matching Colburn County shirts again, now streaked with Hunting Party. “I can wait that much longer.”
He offered to make me an early dinner, and I accepted.
Finishing the walls had been an unexpected balm and a boost to my energy, and even though I had a stove now, it was challenging to cook in such a confined space.
He sent me into the garden with instructions to gather some yellow crookneck squash, which were spilling out of their beds, as well as some flat-leaf parsley, green onions, marjoram, and catnip.
He gave me scissors and a basket, and it felt enjoyably like playing pretend.
The spell was broken when I had to use my phone to identify the marjoram and catnip, but I still returned to the kitchen feeling pleased with myself.
“I didn’t realize humans even ate catnip,” I said cheerfully, setting my bounty down on the counter.
Macon plucked out the sprig and tossed it to the floor. Edmond trotted over, gave it a verifying sniff, and then rubbed his cheeks fervidly against the leaves.
“Oh,” I said inanely.
But Macon smiled. “Some people do use it to make tea. It won’t harm you, at least.”
This was one of the many things I appreciated about him. He never made me—or any library patron—feel bad when we didn’t know something. Although he had the air of somebody who might be condescending, he was always generous with his knowledge. He wasn’t a snob.
After rinsing everything off, he patted the herbs dry with a towel and then set me to work chopping them up.
He stood beside me, grating the squash. His arms were tan from the summer sun, and the back of his neck had tanned, too.
I’d never contemplated his neck before. It looked so masculine, that line where untidy hair met skin—
My pulse throbbed.
He stopped grating. Without turning his head, he glanced at me.
I dropped the knife and hurried to the sink to wash my hands.
Cool water, not hot. On the floor, Edmond rolled blissfully back and forth over the catnip.
I excused myself, and by the time I had collected my wits and dared to return from the bathroom, Macon was already frying all the ingredients together into fritters.
He was almost unbearably attractive. The relaxed confidence in the way he stood over the sizzling stovetop, the way he held the spatula. The ease of his domesticity.
I nearly bolted again.
Another glance at me, this one more curious than tense. He was making sure I was okay. If we had been a couple, he would have asked me, but because we weren’t—and because I had run to the bathroom—he didn’t. I was fine with this. Let him think my problems were digestive.
On the countertop was a jar stuffed with frilly dahlias and dill. To be useful, I carried it to the back porch table along with the chairs, which were still in his dining room. Then I set the small table, and soon he appeared with our plates.
When we finally sat, I wondered how I’d ever get up again. Turning sideways, I slumped and allowed my legs to stretch out beside the table. I did it because I was sapped, but I confess it also turned into a test. Or maybe a dare. Could I provoke him into looking at my bare legs again?
When I had arrived the previous morning, I hadn’t considered that he had only ever seen me in pants and work-appropriate dresses and skirts.
I’d selected my outfit because it would be another blisteringly hot day.
But my shorts were quite short, and my legs were quite long, and as I’d let myself into his house, he’d stumbled and tripped over the perfectly flat floor.
He’d been careful to keep his gaze respectfully averted ever since.
He was also wearing shorts that weekend, and it was the first time I’d ever seen any part of his legs. There was nothing remarkable about them other than… everything. It was an entire portion of his body, ankle to above the knee, that I had never seen before.
Maybe it was the heat; maybe that was why I was so turned on.
The angel’s trumpet flowers were in heavy bloom.
They draped over the nearby fence like hundreds of swirling orange skirts, their sweetly intoxicating fragrance mixing with the nectarous honeysuckle that tangled along the fence beside it.
A hidden frog croaked for its mate, and a pair of bright yellow goldfinches splashed together in the stone birdbath a few feet away, unconcerned by our presence.
“I’m glad we’ve become away-from-work friends,” I said, because I needed to reestablish our relationship out loud.
He plopped a generous dollop of sour cream on top of his fritters, still not looking at my legs. “So am I.”
“How awful would it have been if I’d left and we’d never hung out again?”
Macon made a noise of disgruntlement. “It won’t be the same without you.”
I knew it was true because I would have hated for him to leave me behind, but I still relished every time that he said it. “I’m sure whoever replaces me will be nice,” I said diplomatically.
“No.” He stabbed a fritter. “They’ll be dull, and I’ll hate them.”
I laughed, which made him smile. I felt lucky to see his smile so often now.
Something occurred to me, and it seemed unbelievable that I’d never considered it before. I sat up, tucking my legs back underneath the table. “Hey, would you have any interest in working at the bookstore? I could use a cranky and knowledgeable man such as yourself.”
The smile faded. It took longer than I expected for him to answer.
“No,” he said.
It was a punch to my chest, and I flinched.
His smile returned, but it was gentler. “I’ve already thought about it. And I appreciate the offer. But I believe that what I do—providing free reading materials and resources to the community—is noble work. The public can be a pain in the ass. But this service is my calling.”
I laughed a little, but a deep sadness washed through me.
He was right, and it must have been why I had never considered asking him before.
Macon was a librarian. His convictions had always been strong.
I believed in them, too, but not with the same steadfastness or intensity.
Librarians and booksellers traveled on parallel paths, but those paths were not the same. It was why I was leaving, after all.
I took a bite and was surprised to discover that the sour cream was lemony. The additional tang complemented and elevated the fritter. “I understand,” I said, swallowing. “Although if you ever change your mind, the offer remains on the table.”
“Thank you.”
The first firefly of the evening hovered between us and blinked. Macon’s eyes tracked it for a few seconds before he continued. “You must be excited, though. You’re almost out.”
“It feels like I’m making a huge mistake. I’ve been so busy that none of this has felt real, but… it’s starting to feel real.”
“You’ll feel better once you’ve settled on a property. I still think you want the place downtown,” he added. “Your voice sounds more wistful when you describe it.”