Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
EMMA
As soon as I walk into the book shop the next week my stomach drops. We’re supposed to be leaving in half an hour for Montana. Brooks is picking me up because we’re flying in a private plane to Bozeman. But whatever, right now all I can think about is where the hell did all these boxes come from, and how am I going to get them unpacked in thirty minutes?
Whoever unloaded them – and I have a pretty good idea who because there’s only one delivery driver in town and he’s so slippery he’ll wait for hours to slip a card through your door when you’re not looking rather than actually unload boxes out of his truck – has just dumped them all over the front of the shop, forming a cardboard wall that means I can barely slide through the front door before my face is smashed up against a box.
“Granddad?” I call out.
“Hello.” He peeps at me through a hole in the box wall. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”
“I came in to say goodbye. You weren’t answering your phone.” I messaged Brooks to tell him to pick me up from here. I couldn’t leave without checking that Granddad was okay.
“It’s on the other side.” He points at his cell on the desk next to the window. It’s on my side of the wall. “I can’t get to it.”
And then it dawns on me. If I hadn’t stopped by, he’d have been stuck there for hours. Maybe days if no customer had come in. Sure, he has access to the kitchen and the bathroom, but there’s no food in there.
My stomach twists.
“What are all these boxes?” I whisper to him.
“There was an estate sale in San Francisco,” he tells me. “I didn’t have time to go, so I bought everything. I guess their library was bigger than I thought.”
“They couldn’t delay the delivery until I got back from Montana?” I ask him, and for the first time he looks sheepish.
“I thought it could be my little project while you’re away,” he tells me.
Translation: I hoped that you’d never find out I ordered even more useless books.
Okay, I need to think. A check of my watch tells me I now have fifteen minutes until Brooks picks me up. My suitcases are in my car.
“We need to at least make you a walkway,” I tell him. But the truth is I can’t leave him with all these boxes. He’s old and even though he hates to admit it, he’s getting frail. He could trip or they could fall on him and…
Now I feel sick.
Just as I reach for the box closest to me – the one at a top of a stack of five, the door opens and the bell rings and somebody comes barreling into my back.
I fall against the boxes, the sudden impact making the wind rush out of me, as they tumble and I land on top. I’m wearing a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt because I hate traveling in anything restrictive, so at least my underwear isn’t on show, but seriously, that’s the only dignity I have left.
“Shit,” a deep voice mutters. “Are you okay?”
Two hands wrap around my waist and lift me up so easily for a moment it feels like those dreams where you’re flying. And then my back is pressed against a very firm, very warm chest and I know I’m not dreaming.
When I turn to look at him, Brooks is staring at me, his brows pinched. “Did I hurt you?”
“Just my ego.” I give him a wan smile. “What are you doing here? It’s another fifteen minutes until we have to leave.”
“I’m early,” he says shortly, in a ‘suck it up’ kind of way. And weirdly, I prefer that to him looking all concerned and caring.
I believe it more, too.
Neither of us have mentioned that kiss since it happened. We haven’t even exchanged more information about ourselves on the phone because he’s been busy all week trying to catch up on work before we leave for Montana. Every now and then I’ll think of a question for him and message it over. He rarely answers before midnight and if I didn’t know better I’d probably feel sorry for him.
Take yesterday, for example. I was in the coffee shop, cooing over a little baby who was giggling at everybody who paid her any attention. And it hit me, I don’t even know what Brooks was like as a baby. So I got out my phone and sent him a message.
What age were you when you were potty trained? – Emma
I woke up this morning to his snarky reply.
I’m not. – Brooks
According to the time stamp, it was sent at two in the morning. Which was seven hours ago. I know for a fact that even with the best traffic it takes two hours to get here from New York. Which means he got about five hours sleep at best.
“Um, can somebody help me?” Granddad says in a thin voice. And I immediately feel guilty because I’d forgotten he was there, and trapped.
“What’s happening?” Brooks asks, as though he’s finally worked out that this is NOT normal business in a bookshop.
“We got a delivery. The driver’s an asshole,” I tell him.
“Uhuh.” He runs his hands through his hair and then turns to look at me. “Can you get us some coffees? I’ll move the boxes.”
I take one look at his designer suit and tie. What kind of person wears a suit on a plane to Montana?
“Um, why don’t you get the coffee and I’ll move the boxes,” I suggest.
“Because I’m a man. And it’ll take me half the time it takes you.”
“But I know where they need to go,” I say, smarting at his words because technically he’s right, but my feminist ego hates it.
He lets out a sigh as he takes his jacket off and lays it carefully on the box closest to us. Then he unknots his tie and hangs it in the same place. I’m about to make a wisecrack about it being too early in the morning for a stripper when he unbuttons his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice lifting, because as he slides his shirt off I’m blinded by the rise and fall of his bicep muscles. Thankfully he’s wearing a pristine white undershirt, but it leaves very little to the imagination. The man obviously works out. A lot .
“I don’t want to get dirty if I’m moving boxes.”
“You gonna take your pants off too then?” I ask him sweetly.
He rolls his eyes.
I’m in a slight conundrum. Because I don’t like blue and pink jobs. I don’t like the men doing the grunt work while the women do the kitchen work. But he’s doing me – and Granddad – a favor that he doesn’t need to do. If the man wants a coffee, shouldn’t I get that for him?
“What about our flight?” I say, suddenly alarmed. “You should get it. I’ll catch a later one.” If I can find the money to pay for it. Because I cleared my account out last month to pay the shop’s rent.
“It’s a private flight. I’ll call them and ask to delay.”
“You can do that?” I frown. He lifts a brow and I feel a bit like an idiot. Of course you can do that. If you have enough money.
“Okay. I’ll get those coffees,” I mumble.
“Thanks.” He gives me a nod then turns to look at Granddad. “You hanging in there okay, sir?”
“I’m doing fine. Just enjoying the entertainment,” Granddad says, winking at him. “You should get Brooks a pastry too,” he tells me. “The man deserves it.”
Brooks hasn’t put his jacket or shirt back on and it’s very distracting as we drive toward the airfield where our plane is waiting for us. The sun is blasting through the windows of his sports car, and he’s wearing a pair of aviators, his window is down. He looks stupidly relaxed.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry.”
“What about?” He turns to look at me and I can see myself reflected in the mirrored glass of his lenses. Where he looks calm my face is red and I can see the tightness in my jaw that hasn’t let up any since I hugged Granddad and made him promise not to buy anything else while I’m away.
“I didn’t know he’d bought all those boxes,” I say. “And I definitely didn’t know they would be delivered today.” I swallow hard. “He has a bit of a problem…”
“What kind of problem?” Brooks asks, sounding interested. An image flashes into my brain of him carrying all those boxes into the back room. Which was already full of boxes that Granddad hasn’t had the chance to go through and catalogue yet.
“An old book kind of problem,” I say.
A smile curls at Brooks’ lips. “Isn’t that part of his job?”
“Not really. I can guarantee that at least ninety percent of those books will be useless.” We donate them when they are. But even then they only get charities pennies per book. Nobody wants old books anymore unless they’re collectors. Once upon a time, books were scarce and cherished. Now they’re the literary equivalent of fast food.
“So why does he order them? Is he a hoarder?” Brooks asks.
I take a deep breath. “He’s looking for a very particular book.”
Brooks tips his head to the side, as though he’s intrigued. “What book?”
“It’ll sound stupid,” I tell him. “But it’s really important to Granddad. It’s like his holy grail. Back in the seventies, my Grandma wrote a book of love poetry. It got picked up by this tiny publisher that’s long since gone bust and they ran a really short print run. And when she died, he couldn’t find his copy. He thinks it may have gotten sold by accident. I think it’s more likely that it got thrown out. Either way, he’s determined to find a copy, even though only a hundred were printed almost fifty years ago. So whenever he sees an estate sale or an auction, he scours through it to find out if her book is listed.”
Brooks says nothing, just stares at the road ahead of us. According to his GPS we’re about ten minutes away from the airfield. I didn’t even know there was an airfield here. I guess I never needed to until now.
“Like I said, it’s stupid.”
“It’s not.” He shakes his head. “It’s like his Taj Mahal.”
“Taj Mahal?” I repeat, not quite getting it.
“The beautiful white domed building in Uttar Pradesh. It was built in the seventeenth century by a Mughal emperor to house his wife’s dead body. It cost him millions to build.”
“The Taj Mahal is a tomb? I thought it was a palace.” And now I feel like an idiot. I’m already googling it and he’s right. “How do you know all this?”
“When I was a kid I used to spend a lot of time in my dad’s library. He had these huge encyclopedias. I used to grab one and start reading.”
“For fun?” I ask, teasing him, because I know exactly what he means. I did the same thing in The Vintage Verse when I was a kid. I loved finding out useless facts.
A smile ghosts his lips. “The internet was in its infancy. I had to have my fun offline.”
“I guess he really loved her,” I say.
“Who?”
“The emperor. To build something like that.” I’m staring at the photograph of the iconic building. It’s so beautiful. And I’m stupidly touched that he’s comparing my granddad’s quest to find the poetry book to this.
But he doesn’t respond because we’re pulling through the gates that lead to the airfield. “I’m going to jump in the shower before we take off,” he tells me. “There’s a tiny lounge here. You can get something to eat if you’d like while you wait.”
“Did I tell you I’m petrified of flying?” I ask him.
He pulls into a space in the parking lot and takes his glasses off, turning to look at me. “No.”
I wink at him. “That’s because I’m not. Just wanted to see those pretty eyes of yours.” And they really are pretty, if you like that kind of thing. Even when he’s rolling them at me.
“Come on,” he mutters, releasing his belt. I hit mine at the same time and our arms brush because we’re both leaning in. His skin is so warm it makes me jump.
“Brooks?” I say as he goes to open his door.
“Yeah?”
“This is going to work, right? We won’t look like idiots, will we?” I swallow because for the first time the nerves are really hitting me. It’s too late to back out now without looking like complete assholes. Cassie called me last night to ask what time we’d be landing and to say that her dad arranged for a car to pick us up and drive us straight to the ranch because it’ll be ‘hotter than the gates of hell’ and she wants us to cool down before we join everybody for dinner.
Brooks turns to look at me, those deep blue eyes giving away nothing at all. “Yes, Emma, it’s going to work.”
He sounds sure enough for the both of us. And I’ll take that for now. He leans across me to open the passenger door from the inside, his arm brushing my chest and it makes my breath catch in my throat.
“You okay?” he asks me, like he can feel it too.
“Take your shower,” I tell him as I climb out of his car. “You stink.”
“Real mature,” he says. But he’s smiling, anyway.