3. Arden
3
ARDEN
One week later
When someone helps you, you thank that person.
That’s simple good manners.
Perhaps it’s a thoughtful card. Maybe it’s a small gift. Sometimes it’s baked goods.
By that same token, you should apologize properly when you inadvertently hit a person with a slice of cheese, even though I doubt Miss Manners has codified the protocol for that particular faux pas.
But I figured this one out on my own, since I pride myself on please, thank you, and proper apologies, as well as delivering them in the right fashion to the right people. If this makes me too nice, so be it. I will wear the “nice girl” sticker with pride.
Take that, David.
“Ha! There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I mutter as I put the finishing touches on the cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels I’ve just baked. This particular thank-you-for-the-shoulder-and-forgive-me-for-my-aim gift is taking the form of a sweet treat, since I bet they don’t sell those cards at Hallmark.
And that’s a good thing, since these pretzels smell sinfully good. So good, in fact, I bet they taste the way naughty feels.
Except I don’t really know what that feels like, so I shove the thought out of my mind, grabbing a Tupperware container. Baked goods are most appropriate for a man you don’t know that well. Sure, I’ve had plenty of conversations with Gabe prior to the Witness of My Tears Extravaganza. He joined the fire station a year or two ago, transferring from the city of San Francisco. Each time we’ve chatted, he’s seemed both friendly and thoughtful, easy to talk to. But beyond the interactions when he visited my store to pick up new mystery novels or crossword puzzle books, or the times I ran into him at Vanessa’s bowling alley, I don’t know him terribly well.
Except I know he likes the ladies.
And the ladies like him.
If I were on the hunt for a one-night stand, or a real good time, he’d surely be the one I’d turn to. The man has charm for miles—a playboy with a heart of gold.
But I’m not going to thank him with my body. Obviously.
Food seems a close second on his list of favorite things. Even if he was eating the picnic to be polite, he legit appeared to appreciate the spread. Men who work with their hands and bodies seem to dig gifts of fuel more than others.
Hence these kickass treats, courtesy of a recipe from my favorite Instagram baker, a fifteen-year-old in New York City who makes the most creative treats on her baking show. It’s amazing what you can learn on Instagram once you look past the endless selfie sea. I press the green plastic top onto the container, sealing in the goodies with a pop. I wipe one palm against the other. There.
Tucking the treats into my shoulder bag, I leave my two-story yellow cottage with the wraparound porch I happen to think is the height of good living, lock the door, and walk six blocks to the town square where my very own bookstore sits proudly in the center of Oak Street. A New Chapter overlooks an expanse of emerald-green grass, park benches, and a statue of some old dude who founded this town in the gold rush era.
I open the cherry-red door to A New Chapter to a twin chorus of meows.
“Are you starving? Is that what you’re telling me? Twelve hours is just too long for your bellies to handle?”
Henry and Clare answer with a duet of cat yeses, so I scoop some food for the rescue kitties the local shelter manager asked me to take in. How could I resist? They were homeless after the wine country fires last year, so I gave them four walls and a roof amidst the books, since customers dig bookstore cats. They purr their appreciation—a gratitude that will only last for a few minutes since they are, after all, cats.
When Henry’s done, the big orange beast parks himself in the window for a public bathing, while Clare, the calico, lounges on a shelf in self-help today, watching every customer as if she’s a guard cat, perhaps personally selecting the books for them. That one needs more self-esteem. She’ll knock the right book off the shelf. This one has mommy issues. Clare will bat the ideal title with her paw, even if she’s sprawled across the one slightly loose shelf.
I cruise through a busy morning, leading a story time for four-year-olds then helping some customers find the best coffee-table books to give as gifts.
As the clock ticks to noon, I grab my bag and find Madeline shelving books. I hired her a few months ago, and she’s a go-getter—best employee ever.
“I need to run a quick errand. Can you handle the store?”
Her green eyes twinkle behind her red rhinestone-studded glasses. “Of course. Can I also work on the bestsellers display if no one’s here?”
Boy, do I love go-getters. “Go for it.”
I take off.
The guys usually wash the trucks now—a scheduling tidbit I only happen to know because of the number of times I’ve heard bookstore customers remark about the eye candy value of our local firemen—so this should be a good time to find Gabe. The firehouse is only a few blocks away, and as it comes into view, I spot Shaw and Gabe, who’s dipping a cloth into a bucket and polishing the engine to a bright, gleaming shade of red.
My flats click-clack across the pavement. Gabe looks up and smiles at me, and for a brief moment, my chest flutters. The man is as handsome as a movie star. We’re talking Hemsworth-brother handsome, which is about the best thing any man anywhere can look like. He wears dark pants and a blue T-shirt with the number of the firehouse on it: 212. He makes those clothes look better than a simple tee and slacks should, courtesy of a tall, hard, muscular frame with broad shoulders, strong biceps, and flat abs.
And I believe I’m ogling.
Maybe that’s because there’s just something about a fireman.
But I’m not here to admire him, or anyone, I remind myself. I’m here to be a gracious citizen of the town of Lucky Falls.
Look out, Gabe. The nice girl is coming for you.