7. Noelle #2
Every time the bell jingles, someone new steps into the store.
A dad pushes a stroller and buys three board books, grinning sheepishly as he admits he’s memorized Goodnight Moon and “ needs something new.”Two girls giggle in the romance section, tugging books off shelves and daring each other to read the blurbs aloud.
I remember fondly the first time I was brave enough to buy a steamy romance.
The register hums, the floorboards creak, the scent of fresh coffee drifts from the back, and I move in the middle of it all, restocking shelves, chatting, recommending, and bagging up books I love.
By the time the flow slows and the bell finally quiets, I realize how swept up I was. My cheeks ache from smiling. My voice is hoarse from talking. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.
“That was quite the rush.” Angie nods toward the stairs, “Now go while you have the chance.”
When I finish reading over the words from last night, my heart does a little skip, and my lips turn up.
I may never publish this, but I refuse to stop.
I flex my fingers and begin typing.
The bell over the door jingles as I step into the shop, the smell of dark roast and warm cinnamon hitting me like it always does. Normally, it’s comforting. Today, it’s a reminder.
Of last night.
My cheeks warm just thinking about it—his mouth, his hands, the way he felt inside of me. I’d convinced myself it would be mortifying this morning, that he’d barely look at me, maybe regret it.
Instead, Emmett is already behind the bar, rolling up his sleeves as he pulls a shot of espresso like nothing has changed. Except, it has.
He glances up, and the second our eyes lock, the air crackles. No shame. No apologies. Just heat.
“Morning, Sandra,” he says, like my name is a secret flavor only he knows how to order.
I duck behind the counter, sliding into my apron. “Morning,” I manage, praying my voice doesn’t betray the riot happening in my chest.
The space back here has never felt small before, but today, every brush of his arm, every lean past me for syrups or mugs, feels deliberate. His hand grazes mine when he passes me the milk pitcher, and I nearly spill it.
“Careful,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “Wouldn’t want another mess.” His smirk tells me he’s not talking about coffee.
The first customers file in—a pair of moms in yoga pants ordering iced lattes, a suited businessman barking into his phone—and I go through the motions like normal.
But Emmett’s presence hums at my back, close enough that when he reaches past me to grab the caramel drizzle, his chest brushes my shoulder.
I glance at him, and he doesn’t look away. Not once. Not even when the customer is watching.
By the time the shift ends and it’s time to close, my skin is buzzing.
He sets a fresh cappuccino on the counter and leans in, his arm brushing mine as he wipes down the bar. “So,” he says softly, his voice carrying just enough to tangle with the hiss of steaming milk. “Still awkward for you?”
I force myself to meet his eyes, and what I find there makes my breath hitch. Desire, sure. But also certainty. He’s not doubting what happened last night. He’s daring me to.
“No,” I whisper back, my lips barely moving. “Not even close.”
His grin is slow, wicked, like he already knew my answer. And suddenly, the space between us feels smaller than ever.
The shop is technically closed, but Emmett doesn’t care. He locks the door, flips the sign to “ Closed ,” and stalks toward me like I’m the last cup of coffee in the world worth drinking.
“You’ve been tempting me all day,” he growls, backing me against the counter. His hands bracket my hips, strong barista hands that smell faintly of roasted beans and cinnamon. “Do you have any idea what that does to a man, Sandra?”
I swallow, my pulse skipping like a needle stuck on a record. “I was just … serving coffee.”
He leans down, lips brushing my ear. “You were serving sin in a cup, sweetheart.” And then his mouth is on mine—hot, bold, like a triple shot of espresso shooting straight into my veins.
My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, and when he lifts me onto the counter, the cool steel meets the heat of my skin. I gasp, and he takes advantage, sliding his tongue against mine with the skill of someone who’s mastered every pour, every grind, every touch.
One hand slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher, and I shiver at the scrape of his calluses. He smells like caramel drizzle and steam, and when he presses against me, hard and insistent, I moan like I’ve just tasted the perfect latte. Thick, hot, impossible to resist.
“Tell me what you want, Sandra,” he demands, lips trailing down my neck. Each kiss is like foam spilling over, messy and sweet, and exactly too much. My body arches, shameless, greedy. “Say it.”
“I want you,” I gasp, tugging at his belt. “God, Emmett, I want you inside me.”
He laughs low, dark, sinful. “Good. Because I’m about to fill you up like the best damn cup you’ve ever had.”
And then he’s there, sliding into me with a slow, decadent stretch that steals my breath.
Espresso-dark, thick, and filling, the kind of addiction no rehab could touch.
I clutch at his shoulders as he thrusts, grinding me down in steady, perfect strokes.
Steam curls around us, phantom and wild, as if the whole shop knows it’s not coffee that’s brewing anymore.
“Emmett,” I cry out, his name breaking from me like steam escaping a kettle. And then, “Oh God—yes.”
He holds me tighter, drives me harder, until I’m shaking apart, spilling over like milk foamed too high, trembling and wrecked, calling his name as I shatter.
After fixing a few tenses and reading over what I have written, I do a little chair dance, happy with what I have so far.
When I hear the bell chime above the door, I realize that it’s the first time I’ve done so in three hours, and it doesn’t worry me—it makes me excited that I was that lost in the story.
“She’s feeling inspired today—don’t go ebbing her flow,” Angie warns from below, her voice carrying up the staircase.
“ Pfft , I inspire her muses.” I think it’s Sofie.
“Is that you, Sofie?” I call down, trying not to sound as giddy as I feel.
“We’re coming up.”
“No, no, no.” I shove back from the desk, tug my cardigan tighter, and shuffle toward the stairs to see the girls and baby Savannah have stopped in to see the place. “Hold on; give me a minute. I’ll be right down.”
“Noelle—” Sofie laughs, but the sound cuts off the second I start down the steps. Her eyes go wide, taking in what is probably my messy bun gone rogue, and tank top under a coffee-stained cardigan.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?” Nalani laughs.
“I am inspired,” I declare, nearly tripping down the last two steps before catching myself with a laugh. “I just need ten more hours in the day.”
Claudia looks down at her sleeping child in her arms. “Don’t we all.”
The bells over the door jingle again, and a swirl of cold air rushes through the shop, and a curtain of long red hair comes with it, wild in the breeze. The woman shakes it back and flashes a smile so big it makes her green eyes glow.
“Hi—sorry,” she says, bending suddenly. When she straightens, she’s holding a black cat like she’s scooped up treasure. “This yours?”
The cat purrs, utterly at ease in her arms. She strokes it like they’ve been lifelong companions.
“That,” I say, still blinking, “is … undecided.”
“You don’t need another cat,” Sofie snips.
The red-head laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that’s too loud for a stranger but somehow comforting anyway. Then she looks around the shop with this almost reverent awe, like she’s walked into Narnia.
“Why would you ever leave here?” she murmurs, then faces us squarely. “Hi, I’m Hildy. I’m here about the job posted online.”
Behind me, Sofie mutters, “You posted a help-wanted ad … online?”
“Maybe?” I scratch my head.
“What do you mean, maybe ?” Sofie hisses.
“Okay, yes,” I admit, cheeks warming, “but it was?—”
Hildy doesn’t wait for me to finish. She strides forward, still holding the cat, and extends her hand.
“You’re Noelle, right? Look, I know you’ve probably got applicants who’ve logged years in retail or customer service, but I swear I’m the perfect fit for this place.
I’m a PhD candidate at LIU’s Palmer School of Information Studies, based at NYU’s Bobst Library.
I’ve still got a couple of years left before I defend, but right now?
This is what I need, a real connection to books outside academia.
I TA for two professors, which locks me up until three-thirty on weekdays, but after that?
I can be here. Every evening. Weekends, too.
” She says it in one rush, then adds quickly, “And I know that probably sounds like overkill, but honestly? This is exactly where I want to be. Books aren’t just research material for me, they’re … home.”
Claudia arches a brow. “She’s pitching you like she’s auditioning for Shark Tank. ”
“I don’t want to oversell myself,” Hildy says, though her wide grin, “But I also really, really want this job.”
Sofie leans an elbow on the counter. “You’re telling me someone as smart as you wants to work here ?”
“Hey.” I hip-check her. “Do not diss Pembrookes.”
“I’m not dissing it. I’m?—”
“Theory is fine, but this?” Hildy replies to Sofie’s question without hesitation.
“This is where people touch the books. Educate themselves through another’s eyes, see their situation in a character who can help them see a path out.
Where stories actually change lives. You don’t get that in a lecture hall. ”
I feel something tug in my chest at that.
The cat squirms, and she sets him gently on the counter. Then she lifts her chin and delivers the final blow. “Hire me, and I’ll alphabetize your romances by trope in less than an hour. And I promise I won’t dog-ear the pages.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “You’re hired.”
Sofie groans. “Seriously? Just like that?”
“Seriously,” I say, smiling at Hildy, who looks like she might burst into tears of joy. “Because anyone who calls a bookstore home is exactly the kind of person I want watching over mine. When can you start?”
“Now?”
“All right, how about tomorrow?” Angie, clearly the voice of reason, laughs. “We have paperwork to do before you start.”
As they walk toward the actual office, not my space upstairs, Nalani asks, “What about the cat?”
I lift the long hair fluff ball up and see he’s a nurtured male. “Ernest stays. Hemingway needs a friend.”
“Someone must be missing him.” Nalani pets him.
“When I take him to the vet, they can scan him and see if he’s chipped. For now, we can keep him safe and loved.”
“One step closer to being a crazy cat lady,” Sofie jokes.