Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
GRAHAM
The soup was a calculated move.
Not just any soup, mind you. This was Lia’s potato leek—the good stuff, with secret herbs, the recipe she made when the weather turned properly cold. She’d handed it over with a knowing look that I’d pretended not to notice.
“If this was for you, you’d get your own chef to make it. I’m guessing it’s for Agnes?” she’d asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Don’t worry about it.” I knew how the gossip in Loren Brae worked. Hell, I ran a pub, didn’t I? The Tipsy Thistle was ground zero for gossip.
“Uh-huh.” Lia smiled. “Tell your friend I said hello.”
Now I stood outside Bonnie Books with the soup in one hand and Treasure Island in the other, feeling like a teenager trying to work up the nerve to talk to his crush.
Which was ridiculous. I was an adult. I owned a business.
I’d read an entire book in three days just to have something to talk to her about.
That last bit made me a touch embarrassed, but at this point, I didn’t care.
I sensed I was close to figuring out what Agnes was keeping from me.
She’d finally gone on a date with me, so her resolve must be wavering, so if I could just get her to crack, I might be able to get to the root of the problem.
And actually do something to fix it.
Through the glass, I could see Agnes on a stepladder, stretching to reach something on the top shelf.
Her jumper rode up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin above her jeans, and I stood there like an absolute creep, watching the line of her back, the way her curls tumbled loosely about her head.
Get a grip, Kincaid.
I pushed through the door, the bell announcing my arrival, and Agnes startled so hard she nearly toppled off the ladder.
“Bloody hell, Graham!” She clutched the shelf for balance, glaring down at me. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I’d use something more creative than a door chime.” I shook my head at her. “Also, aren’t you used to those ringing by now?”
“Aye, I’m just a touch distracted today.” Agnes fluttered a hand in front of her face.
A part of me hoped she was distracted by thoughts of me. Lord knows all I could do was think about her.
I held up the container. “I brought soup.”
“You brought...” She blinked, her irritation shifting to confusion. “Soup?”
“Lia’s potato leek. It’s still hot.” I set it on the counter and leaned against the edge, crossing my arms. Agnes’s skin was pale and dark circles smudged her pretty eyes. “Was our dinner the last time you ate an actual meal?”
Agnes opened her mouth, tugged on her earlobe, and then closed her mouth again.
“That’s what I thought.” I pointed to the container. “Eat. I’ll wait.”
“I’m in the middle of something.” Agnes gestured to the bookshelves. It took everything in my power not to walk over to her and lift her off the stepladder, throw her over my shoulder, and drag her across the street to my flat over the pub.
First I’d shove food down her throat.
And then I’d ravish her.
“Reorganizing your already perfectly organized shelves?” I glanced at the section she’d been working on. “That’s your stress tell, you know. When you’re upset, you organize things.”
“I do not have a stress tell.” Agnes’s brows dropped low over her forehead, and she pushed her lower lip out in an adorable pout.
“You absolutely do. When you’re anxious, you twist your bracelet.
When you’re not being entirely truthful, you tug on your left earlobe.
And when something’s really bothering you, you reorganize things that don’t need reorganizing.
” I nodded toward the shelf. “Those books were in perfect order. They’re never not in perfect order, Agnes. ”
“Don’t you have other things to be doing than harassing me? Didn’t I give you a book to read this week?” Agnes glared at me and made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go do that.”
“Can’t.” I pulled the book out of my coat pocket. “Finished it last night.”
That got her attention. She climbed down from the ladder, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“You actually read it?”
“Cover to cover. Even the boring bits about ship rigging.”
“There are no boring bits about ship rigging. The technical detail is part of what makes it immersive.” Impatience flared on Agnes’s face. Which was far better than the sad I just kicked a puppy dog look that had been on her face the other night when she’d turned away from me in the car.
“Well, darling, that technical detail nearly put me to sleep three separate times, but I persevered.” I flipped the book open to a dog-eared page. “I did have questions, though.”
Agnes’s expression shifted from suspicious to intrigued despite herself. She crossed to the counter, close enough that I caught a whiff of her scent—honey and something floral today.
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, for starters, Long John Silver. He’s the villain, right? But I found myself rooting for him half the time. Is that normal, or am I just morally compromised from my years of debauchery?”
“It’s intentional.” Agnes skewered me with a look when I mentioned my debauchery, but then angled her hip against the counter, warming to the subject.
“Stevenson wrote Silver as charismatic and intelligent specifically to complicate the readers’ sympathies.
It’s to show how we romanticize pirates and that charm can often hide cruelty. ”
“So I’m not morally compromised?”
“I mean, who can judge that, really?” Agnes rolled her eyes.
I laughed, and something in Agnes’s face softened. She still looked tired—there were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there a few days ago—but for a moment, she looked like herself again.
“What else?” she asked and I realized that I’d just been standing there, aching to kiss her.
“What else what?”
“You said questions. Plural. What else confused you about an adventure novel?”
“Och, it’s not just an adventure novel. You said it was historically accurate.”
“It is.”
“Then explain to me how a one-legged man manages to be the most competent person on an entire ship. Everyone else is falling over themselves, getting drunk, and making terrible decisions, and Silver’s just hopping around being all strategic and deadly.
One leg, Agnes. On a rocking ship. In the 1700s. ”
Agnes’s lips twitched. “Prosthetics were actually quite sophisticated by that era. And there are documented cases of amputee sailors who—”
“You’re going to give me a history lecture, aren’t you?”
“You asked a question. This is what happens when you ask me questions.”
“I’m not complaining.” I was close, near enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “I like when you lecture me. You get this look on your face, like you’re genuinely baffled that everyone doesn’t find maritime history as fascinating as you do.”
“Maritime history is fascinating. The Age of Sail shaped the entire modern world.”
“See? That look. Right there.” I tapped my finger against the counter, near her hand but not quite touching. “It’s very attractive, for the record.”
Agnes’s breath caught. I watched her throat work as she swallowed.
“Graham...”
“The soup’s getting cold,” I said, straightening. “Eat. Then you can tell me what else I should read.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between arguing and giving in. Finally, she reached for the container and peeled back the lid. The warm scent of creamy leek and pepper filled the small space.
“This is bribery,” she said, but she was already reaching for the spoon I’d packed.
“It’s lunch. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Bribery would imply I want something from you.” I moved around the counter, heading toward the back of the shop where I knew she kept the extra stock. “I’m just being a good friend.”
“Where are you going?”
“You’ve got a shipment that came in yesterday. I saw the boxes when I walked past this morning.” I glanced back over my shoulder. “I’m going to help you unpack it.”
“I don’t need help.” Agnes arched a brow at me.
“I know you don’t. You’re insanely capable. It’s one of your more intimidating qualities, but it doesn’t hurt to let people help you once in a while.”
“Says the man who only just hired part-time help at the pub.”
I skewered her with a look and went to find the stack of boxes. Hoisting two in my arms, I returned to the front and placed them down carefully. “But I’m here, and I’ve got an hour before I’m due back at the pub, so you might as well put me to work.”
Agnes stared at me, spoon halfway to her mouth. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“This.” She gestured vaguely with the spoon. “The soup. Helping with my boxes. Being...”
“Charming? Helpful? Devastatingly handsome?”
“Nurturing? Pushy? I can’t decide.” Agnes squinted at me but at last she spooned up more soup, so I was happy.
She wasn’t wrong … in some senses. She had been doing everything on her own for a long time and was supremely capable and my added commitment to her was new.
But what Lachlan and Munroe said the other day made sense.
Agnes hadn’t told me that she didn’t love me or that she didn’t want me.
Which meant … I had a chance. And there was no way in hell I wasn’t going to take any opening.
I had to at least try. There is something stopping us from becoming an us, but it’s not a lack of love.
“I know something’s bothering you, and even if you won’t let me help with whatever it is, I can at least make sure you’re eating and not buried under inventory.” I shrugged, professing nonchalance.
Agnes looked away, but not before I saw something flicker across her face.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice small.
“I know.” I pulled at the tape on the box. “You’re always fine. That’s the problem.”
“How is being fine a problem?”
“Because you’re never just fine, Agnes. You’re either actually fine, in which case you say you’re grand.
Or you’re falling apart and trying to hide it, in which case you say fine in that way women do when they absolutely mean the opposite.
” I started lifting books out of the box, checking the titles against the packing slip.
She was quiet for a long moment. I focused on the books, giving her space, though every nerve in my body was tuned to her like a radio searching for a signal.
“These go in the Scottish history section?” I pointed at a stack of hardcovers.
“What? Oh. Aye. Second shelf from the top, after the Jacobite collection.”
Before I could do anything, Agnes snagged the books and marched over to the shelf, abandoning her soup. The second-to-top shelf was just out of her comfortable reach, and she reached up on her tiptoes.
Bloody hell, but why did I find this annoying woman so impossibly enchanting?
Sighing, I stepped in behind her and reached past, one hand bracing against the shelf beside her head while the other relieved her of half the stack. The motion put me close—I can’t say I was mad about it—and once I was there, I didn’t pull back.
“Here,” I said, gently. “You’re going to drop them.”
She stilled.
She inhaled a short, sharp intake of breath. My arm was caged beside her now, my chest just behind her shoulder. Her body was warm through her jumper, and I wanted to bury my face in her hair and savor her scent.
I shelved the books easily, the height difference making it almost laughable how unnecessary her struggle had been. Agnes remained frozen in front of me, the seconds drawing out between us. When I finished, I should have stepped away.
I didn’t.
Agnes turned to look up at me, the movement bringing her closer. Her face tilted back, eyes wide and searching, her lips parted like she’d forgotten what she’d meant to say.
My concentration focused—laser sharp. I became acutely aware of just how small the space was, how my hand was still braced against the shelf, how my other hovered uselessly at my side, aching to reach for her.
My gaze dropped to her mouth.
Just for a second. Bloody hell, but this was torture. Why was I doing this to myself?
I needed a taste.
Her breath hitched, soft and uneven, and the sound nearly undid me.
I leaned in without quite meaning to. Just a smidge. But I could feel the heat of her breath against my lips. Her eyes dilated and God help me, but she licked her lips.
Fire ignited inside me. I needed this woman the way a drowning man needed a life preserver.
And the only one who could save me was her.
“Agnes,” I said, her name a rasp. A plea, even.
She didn’t move away.
For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to that sliver of space between us—that in-between.
That what if. If I closed the distance, I knew I wouldn’t stop at a kiss.
I knew exactly how it would end. Because once she let me in, I wasn’t letting her out of my hands.
For at least a good twelve to fifteen hours. Give or take.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth again, betraying her.
Then the bell over the door chimed, and we sprang apart like teenagers caught by a parent.
“Oh!” An elderly woman stood in the doorway, clutching her handbag and blinking at us. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Agnes said, quickly. “No, nothing. Just shelving. Graham was helping me shelve.”
“Books,” I added, unhelpfully.
The woman’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I see. Well, don’t let me stop you from ... shelving.”
She wandered off toward the romance section with a knowing smile that suggested she hadn’t believed a word of it. Agnes’s cheeks had gone bright red.
“You should go,” she said, not looking at me.
“I’ve still got boxes to unpack.”
“I can manage the boxes.”
“Agnes—”
“Please.” She finally met my eyes, and the look in her eyes made my stomach twist in knots. “I can’t ... I can’t do this right now. I can’t think straight when you’re here.”
But I needed to be patient. It had always been the long game with Agnes. What I need to do is let her come to me instead of chasing her into corners.
“Okay,” I said. “But finish your soup.”
“Graham—”
“And I’m coming back tomorrow to help with the rest of the inventory between my shifts.”
“I’ve been unpacking my own boxes for years.” Agnes frowned at me. “That’s entirely unnecessary.”
“Aye, likely so.” I grabbed my jacket from where I’d tossed it over a chair. “But I’m doing it anyway. Lunch shift ends at two. I’ll bring scones.”
“I don’t want scones.”
“Everyone wants scones. It’s a scientific fact.” I tapped my finger on where she was tugging on her left earlobe.
“Damn it,” Agnes said and dropped her hand. I grinned, delighted that she looked caught out and flustered. It was far better than the tired and stressed look she’d had on her face when I’d first come in.
“Finish the soup,” I said. “And get some sleep tonight. You look exhausted.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You look exhausted and beautiful. They’re not mutually exclusive.” I pulled open the door, letting in a gust of cold air. “See you tomorrow, Agnes.”
I left before she could argue, the bell chiming behind me.
Patience, I reminded myself as I walked back toward The Tipsy Thistle. I was going to be patient if it killed me.
Though at the rate things were going, it just might.