Chapter 8 #2
Finn’s mouth twitched in that almost-smile that never failed to make Ollie’s heart skip. “Need an extra pair of hands?”
“Always,” Ollie admitted. “We’re sorting promotional materials for different venues. Some need to be more…conservative than others.”
They moved to a table covered with stacks of flyers, working side by side to organize them by location.
The simple task felt oddly intimate, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they reached for the same pile.
Each accidental touch sent a current through Ollie’s skin, making it hard to focus on the task at hand.
“Before we get too much deeper, do you truly think we’ll be able to get the store back in order in time?” Ollie asked, needing to fill the charged silence.
“Absolutely. We should be finished by Friday, barring any setbacks.” Finn’s hands moved efficiently, sorting flyers with the same precision he brought to everything. “Brendan’s team is painting right now, so the walls can dry overnight.”
“I can’t thank you enough for expediting everything. I know you called in some favors to get everything done so quick.”
Finn shrugged, a hint of color touching his cheekbones. “It’s what needed to be done.”
They worked in companionable silence for a while, falling into an easy rhythm.
Ollie couldn’t help stealing glances at Finn’s profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his Henley stretched across his shoulders as he reached for another stack.
The lamplight cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting angles Ollie had memorized without meaning to.
“You’re staring,” Finn observed quietly, not looking up from his task.
Heat flooded Ollie’s face. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“How much I owe you. For all of this.” Ollie gestured vaguely. “For caring about the store. For showing up. For making me feel like maybe this isn’t a lost cause after all.”
Finn’s hands stilled, and he finally looked up, meeting Ollie’s gaze. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know. That’s what makes it special.” The words slipped out before Ollie could filter them, too honest and too revealing.
Something shifted in Finn’s expression—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability that made him look younger somehow. “Ollie—”
“Hey, lovebirds!” Sam called from across the room. “Less googly eyes, more flyer sorting. We’ve got a bookstore to save!”
Ollie groaned, dropping his forehead to the table dramatically. “I’m going to murder her. Slowly. With a limited-edition hardcover.”
Finn’s low chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down Ollie’s spine. “She’s not wrong. About the flyers, I mean.”
“Just the flyers?” Ollie asked, lifting his head to find Finn watching him with an intensity that made his breath catch.
“We should talk,” Finn said quietly. “About the other day. At the store.”
Ollie’s mouth went dry. He bit his lower lip. “Yes. We should. But maybe not with an audience of nosy friends who are definitely eavesdropping right now.” He shot a pointed look toward Sam, who didn’t even pretend not to be listening.
“Later then,” Finn agreed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “After we finish here?”
Ollie nodded, not trusting his voice. The promise of “later” hung between them, charged with possibility.
They returned to their task, but something had shifted—an awareness that crackled in the air between them, making every accidental touch feel deliberate, every shared glance meaningful. Ollie was hyperaware of Finn’s proximity, the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his soap.
As they sorted the last stack of flyers, Ollie told Finn about his vision for the bookstore—the ideas he’d been too afraid to voice fully, even to his parents.
“I’ve always thought we could be more than just a place that sells books,” he explained, enthusiasm building as he spoke.
“We could be a hub for creativity, for connection. Besides the stuff I already told you, I was thinking maybe even a paint-and-sip event in the back room if Jules is game. A place where people find stories that change them, yes, but also where they can tell their own stories.”
Finn listened intently, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Too much, probably,” Ollie admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “My parents always focused on the classics, on building a solid collection. And that matters—it’s the foundation. But I think we need to evolve to survive.”
“Have you told them this? Your parents?”
Ollie shook his head. “Not all of it. They’ve been so stressed about finances, and I didn’t want to add to that with pie-in-the-sky ideas. It was hard enough getting them to agree to what we’re already working on.”
“They’re not pie-in-the-sky,” Finn said firmly. “They’re practical, forward-thinking. The kind of vision that could actually save the store.”
The simple validation—from someone as grounded and practical as Finn—made something warm unfurl in Ollie’s chest. “You think so?”
“I know so.” Finn’s gaze was steady, confident. “You should tell them everything you’ve come up with. Show them what you see.”
“Maybe I will,” Ollie said softly. “If this first author event goes well.”
“It will,” Finn said, with such certainty that Ollie almost believed him.
Their hands brushed as they reached for the same flyer, but this time, neither pulled away. Finn’s fingers curled slightly around Ollie’s, a deliberate touch that sent electricity up his arm. Ollie’s breath caught in his throat as Finn’s thumb traced a small circle on the back of his hand.
“Ollie,” Finn began, his voice rough around the edges.
“Yes?” Ollie barely breathed the word, afraid to break whatever spell had fallen over them.
Finn leaned closer, his eyes dropping to Ollie’s lips.
The rest of the room seemed to fade away—the chatter of friends, the rustling of papers, the hum of the library’s heating system—until there was only this: Finn’s hand warm against his, Finn’s breath mingling with his own, the infinitesimal distance between them shrinking by heartbeats.
Ollie’s eyes fluttered half-closed, his body swaying slightly forward as if pulled by an invisible thread.
He could feel the warmth of Finn’s skin, count the flecks of amber in his hazel eyes, sense the slight tremble in the fingers still holding his.
Time stretched and slowed, each second expanding to contain multitudes of wanting.
“Dad?”
Brooklyn’s voice shattered the moment. Finn straightened abruptly, his hand slipping away from Ollie’s as he turned toward his daughter.
She stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, her expression curious as her gaze flicked between them.
For a brief moment, something like recognition flickered in her eyes—not just of what she’d interrupted, but of something else.
The way she looked at her father, a mixture of surprise and quiet assessment, suggested she was seeing him in a new light.
“I finished my research. Are you ready to go?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“Yes, of course,” Finn said, his voice slightly unsteady. “Just give me a minute to wrap up here.”
Brooklyn nodded, her eyes lingering on Ollie with an unreadable expression before she stepped back into the hallway.
The interruption left Ollie feeling oddly bereft, the loss of Finn’s touch like a physical ache. He forced a smile, trying to mask his disappointment. “You should go. It’s getting late.”
Finn hesitated, conflict evident in his eyes. “Ollie, I—”
“It’s okay,” Ollie assured him, though it wasn’t, not really. “Family first. Always.”
Something like gratitude flickered across Finn’s face, followed quickly by regret. “Rain check on that talk?”
“Absolutely,” Ollie agreed, though he wondered if the moment—whatever it had been building toward—was lost for good.
As Finn gathered his things, Sam sidled up to Ollie, bumping his shoulder with hers. “That was some serious tension I just witnessed. On a scale of one to ‘get a room,’ you two were at about a nine point five.”
“Shut up,” Ollie muttered, but there was no heat in it.
“Just stating facts.” Sam grinned. “Also, his kid totally caught you about to make out with her dad.”
“We weren’t—” Ollie began, then sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing happened.”
“Yet,” Sam corrected. “Nothing happened yet.”
Across the room, Finn was saying goodbye to the others, his manner polite but distracted. When he reached Ollie, he paused, something unspoken passing between them.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Finn asked, the question carrying more weight than the simple words suggested.
Ollie nodded. “I’ll be at the store all day. I want to get started on putting books back on the shelves since the worst of the dust should be gone.”
“I’ll stop by,” Finn promised. “To check on Brendan’s progress. And…other things.”
The way he said “other things” made Ollie’s pulse quicken. “I’ll be there.”
After Finn left, Ollie stood staring at the door for a moment too long, lost in thought. The phantom warmth of Finn’s hand lingered on his skin, a promise of what might have been—what might still be.
“You’ve got it bad,” Jules observed, appearing at his elbow. “Like, write-his-name-in-your-notebook bad.”
“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Ollie protested, though he couldn’t deny the accuracy of their assessment.
“Age is irrelevant when it comes to crush behavior,” Jules countered. “And you, my friend, are exhibiting textbook symptoms.”
Before Ollie could respond, the library door opened again, but instead of Finn returning, his parents stepped in. His mother’s face lit up at the sight of all the planning materials, while his father surveyed the room with quiet approval.
“Mom? Dad?” Ollie moved toward them, surprised. “I thought you were having dinner with the Hendersons tonight.”
“We are,” his mother confirmed, embracing him warmly. “But we wanted to see how the planning was coming along.” She gestured to the walls covered in promotional materials. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“We’ve made progress,” Ollie acknowledged, suddenly nervous. What if they thought he was being naive? Wasting time and resources on a lost cause?
His father picked up one of the flyers, studying the design. “Save the Shelf: A Community Campaign,” he read aloud. “This is good work, son.”
The simple praise loosened something in Ollie’s chest. “We’re trying. I know it’s a long shot, but—”
“It’s not a long shot,” his mother interrupted gently. “It’s exactly what the store needs. What we all need.”
Ollie blinked, caught off guard by her certainty. “You think so?”
His parents exchanged a look—one of those silent communications honed by decades of marriage—before his father spoke.
“Your mother and I have been talking,” he began, his tone careful. “About the store. About the future.”
Ollie’s stomach dropped. “And?”
“And we think we’ve been too rigid,” his mother continued. “Too stuck in how we’ve always done things. Maybe what Shelf Care Central needs isn’t just structural repairs, but a new vision. Your vision.”
“What are you saying?” Ollie asked, hardly daring to hope.
“We’re saying we’re not selling,” his father stated firmly. “Not yet, anyway. We want to see where you take this—these events, these new ideas. We want to give it a real chance.”
Ollie stared at them, speechless. A wave of emotion crashed over him—relief, joy, gratitude, fear—all tangling together until he couldn’t separate one thing from another. His eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly, trying to process what he was hearing.
“What changed your minds?” he finally managed, his voice thick.
His mother smiled, reaching out to straighten his collar in that maternal gesture she’d never outgrown. “Seeing how hard you’ve been working the past couple of weeks. Seeing all of this.” She gestured around the room. “The energy, the hope. And watching you with that project manager of yours.”
“He’s not my—” Ollie began automatically, then stopped. “Wait, what?”
“We saw how you two were working together,” his father explained. “The way you talk about the store, about its potential, it’s infectious. Even got this old cynic believing again.”
“We’ve been holding on too tightly to how things were,” his mother added softly. “Maybe it’s time to see what they could be.”
The weight that had been pressing on Ollie’s chest for weeks suddenly lifted, leaving him lightheaded with relief and possibility. He threw his arms around both his parents, hugging them tightly, words failing him completely. When he finally pulled back, his smile was watery but radiant.
“I won’t let you down,” he promised. “We’re going to make this work.”
“We know you will,” his father said, squeezing his shoulder. “Now, show us what you’ve got going. We want to hear everything.”
As Ollie led his parents toward his friends, he felt a strange sense of alignment—as if the pieces of his life that had been drifting apart were suddenly clicking into place. The store had a chance. His parents believed in him. And Finn…
Well, that remained to be seen. But for the first time in weeks, Ollie had a tentative hope that maybe—just maybe—everything would work out after all.