Chapter 5
Twenty minutes later, Noah walks back into the store through the open door to the cafe.
“No take out containers? We get plates?” he asks, a plate in each hand.
“Not only do we get plates and real silverware, when we take them back, we have to go through the kitchen and wash them.”
He lets out a little chuckle as he sets the plates on the counter, a bag from the hardware store dangles from his wrist.
“Is this where you eat?” he asks.
“Usually I eat at my desk, but …”
“We could eat at the desk.”
“I don’t want to disturb your work.”
“I’m not working,” he says as he sets the hardware bag on the counter too. “Besides, standing here, I’m looking at myself. And there’s nothing worse than eating lunch and looking at a picture of yourself. Though it doesn’t look like me.”
“A few days of beard growth you’d be right back there.”
“And about six weeks of sleep,” he says and I study those deeply darkened eyes. “Anyway, which one is yours?”
“I don’t mind. I didn’t know what you liked and I forgot to ask.”
“I see the turkey sandwich has greens.”
“Fresh from the front of the store and not the back,” I assure him.
“Just the way I like them.”
We never do move to my office to eat at the desk or walk to the back room. We fall into that comfortable silence again right at the counter.
When the door to the shop opens, and three women walk in, Noah gathers his sandwich and heads to the office. Once he’s deposited his lunch on the desk, he comes back for the hardware store bag.
“What time do you close?” he asks.
“On a Tuesday night with no events, six.”
“If you don’t mind sticking around for a few minutes, I’ll get the door fixed before you leave.
I don’t want to disturb your customers,” he says before turning back to the office and closing himself in.
Only, he doesn’t fully close the door. This time he leaves it unlatched and I wonder if that was to keep from slamming the door, or so that he doesn’t feel so isolated.
I finish my lunch and walk the plate to the backroom so that no one smells tuna fish the rest of the day. At some point, I’ll take the plates back and wash them.
When I return to the front, the three ladies that came into the store walk to the counter, each of them have a book tucked in their arm.
“It looks like you all found what you were looking for,” I say, noticing the book each of them carries is Alyssa Maxwell’s newest romance, which I think is her best yet.
“Is there still room people to join book club?” One of the women asks.
“We have some space available.” I reach under the counter for the clipboard that has the signup sheet for this month’s book club, in which we’re discussing Alyssa’s newest book.
Turning the board toward them, I hand the first lady the pen to sign up as I ring up her order.
“You haven’t been to book club before have you?” I ask, scanning the barcode on the back of the book.
“No. We came to scope out the town for the literary festival. We’re in an Airbnb just up the mountain a ways. Luckily, we booked it again for that weekend too because every hotel room in town and the next twenty miles is filled,” her voice is filled with delight at having secured a place to stay.
“It’s going to be a great weekend," I say as the third lady touches the poster for Noah’s book.
“He’ll be here?” she asks, actually running her hand over his picture.
“He will be.”
“Sexy,” she moans and all three of them giggle. “He’ll be doing a book signing?”
“He will be. We’ll have the schedule out soon. He’s signing his newest book. It’ll be release day and you can preorder here and we’ll have copies for you.”
The three of them exchange looks. “I’ll take a copy of his book too,” the woman whom I’m ringing up says.
I add it to her order, and then push over another clipboard to gather her information for the preordered book so that her copy is waiting for her when she arrives for the signing.
“I’ll need one too,” the second woman says.
“Me three,” the third woman says, her fingers still lingering on his picture. “Have you met him?” she asks me.
My jaw tightens because I can only imagine he’s watching this whole interaction through the crack of the door.
“I have.”
The third woman finally moves her hand from the poster, resting it flat on the counter, pulling herself forward. “Is he as sexy in real life as he is on his website and TV?”
I swallow hard. “He’s a nice-looking man,” I say, because, shit, I’m not about to tell her he’s every bit as sexy and broody as he comes across, knowing he’s right behind me.
Though, I’m also going to protect his privacy until he has to be on display.
If he’d wanted the attention, he’d have stepped out behind me by now.
The third woman studies me coolly. She’d obviously wanted better gossip than that.
I ring up their sales and suggest they go next door to Mrs. Packer’s for a latte.
When they hurry off in the other direction, that’s when the door behind me creaks open.
Noah stands behind me with his cafe plate in hand. “That was extremely uncomfortable,” he says, his voice a bit raspy.
“I guess you’re just too sexy for your poster.”
I’m surprised when he chuckles at that. “You didn’t tell her you thought I was sexy.”
Now my throat tightens and I shift a long look at him. Is he flirting?
“Well, that would have made the conversation even more uncomfortable, don’t you think?”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, and I realize that I didn’t say otherwise. Shit.
He sets his empty plate on the counter and studies the list the ladies just added their names to.
“What book are we discussing at book club?” he reaches for the clipboard and looks at it. “ Whispers of the Heart . Alyssa Maxwell.”
“I think it’s her best yet,” I say and watch as he shakes his head.
“Let me guess, you don’t read romance.” There is some snark in my tone as I take my automatic defensive stance when I discuss romance, usually with men.
There is a standoffishness about them when they even say the word.
Immediately my spine straightens and I’m defending something that hasn’t even been discussed.
I’ve seen the looks, having been a romance reader my whole life, and having dabbled in the writing of it.
Literary lovers and especially horror authors, they don’t believe in the happily ever afters or the tropes.
There is a look that clouds their faces when the word is even used in their presence.
Admittedly, I don’t know if he has that look.
I’m on autopilot, ready to defend the genre with my every fiber.
Noah pushes the clipboard back toward me. “A good author would read across genres to get a feel for others’ voices and the market.”
“Are you a good author?” I ask, and immediately wish I could take it back when his lips tighten and his gaze drops back to the clipboard.
Noah pulls the clipboard back to him, as well as one of the pens on the counter. On the book club sheet, he writes down his name before pushing it back to me.
Though his lips are still tight, there’s a softness in those shadowed eyes.
With that, Noah walks back into the office, and this time, fully closes the door.