Chapter 7
I’m not sure what drove everyone in town to stop by, but for a Tuesday afternoon, the store is hopping.
Katie had even said she’d come back tomorrow to finish going over things, because I just couldn’t give her all my attention.
I don’t usually have staff on afternoons where, as a rule, I’m not busy.
But today, Julia and Lily would have been handy to have around.
Exactly at six o’clock, the door to my office opens and Noah, looking even more exhausted than he had earlier, walks out.
“You knew I had a rush on your books and you hurried out to say hello to your adoring fans?” I say, dripping in sarcasm at the empty store, but his eyes are dull as if he doesn’t understand my comment.
“I was just kidding. But I did have a run on preorders. You’re going to be one busy man at your signing. ”
Noah rakes his fingers through his hair and just nods. “I’ll get to fixing the door now so you can get home.”
I watch him as he moves back to the office to retrieve the bag from the hardware store.
As he gets the items he’d bought set up, I move to the front door and lock it, then turn the sign to closed.
Mrs. Packer closed the door between our places hours ago, but I check to make sure it’s locked.
She opens much earlier than I do and I’ve been known to find people wandering my store when I walk in because we’ve forgotten to lock the door.
When I come back to the counter, Noah is on the step stool sanding down the top of the door.
It’s intriguing to me that a man who is good with words is handy too. I don’t know why I think those two things don’t go together, but obviously they can.
I begin to close out the register and run the day’s reports. So far I have enough books ordered for the event, but if sales keep up as they have been, I may have to pull in a few favors to cover the inventory for Noah’s book.
“How long have you owned the shop?” he asks from his perch on the stool.
I turn to look up at him, surprised by him starting small talk.
“Twelve years,” I say.
“It’s a really nice shop,” he says, looking around from his elevated view. “I like the children’s corner.”
I lean against the counter and watch him work. “It’s one of my favorite places. I wanted kids to get excited about reading. I thought if it was welcoming, they’d want to be there.”
He nods. “What do your kids think about it?”
I cross my arms in front of me, closing myself in, as I do when I find myself talking about kids. “Never had any. It wasn’t in the cards,” I say and he nods.
“Yeah, me either,” he says, and I can hear as much disappointment in his voice as I feel in my heart.
“Your romance area is extensive,” he says matter-of-factly as if to get us off the topic of kids, and I have to remind myself not to put up that defense I had earlier. He’s not dissing me—yet. He’s only commenting on the store itself.
“I would have liked to have had an all romance bookstore,” I admit.
“Why didn’t you?” he asks as he steps down the step stool and tries the door, then climbs back up and starts sanding again.
I let my arms fall, leaving defensive me behind. “The only other store in town is a used bookstore. I figured this was my opportunity to help the community and host local authors who otherwise won’t get a chance in a big store. Independent authors need independent bookstores to support them.”
Noah stops sanding and levels a look on me. “The big stores don’t carry local authors?”
I have to study him a moment to see if he’s asking that as a legitimate question. He seems to be honest about it. “No. The big publishers, like Fitzgerald & Clark, have contracts with the big stores. They fill them, not leaving much room for independent authors.”
“I didn’t know that,” he says, almost apologetic.
Again, I’m studying him and wondering what rock he’s been under for the past fifteen years, but then it hits me. The devastated widower rock is probably big enough to have sheltered him.
I shrug. “It’s how it works. So, instead of only selling romance, I support everyone. Even those who have contracts with big publishers,” I say, smiling up at him, and hoping it comes across as sincere.
“I appreciate everything you’re going to be doing for the literary event.
I don’t get out much, unless I’m doing a book tour or one of these events.
” He steps off the stool again and tries the door.
This time it closes without much effort.
“If I didn’t do these things, I’d never leave my apartment,” he admits as he pulls a can of WD-40 out of the hardware bag, along with a cloth and goes about spraying the hinges, and wiping up the drips.
Watching him, I wonder why it’s taken this long to fix that door. What he did wasn’t rocket science, but there was a patience to it and I appreciate that.
“I’m not dogging on the big publishers,” I say, realizing now, I might have sounded a bit jaded.
“I didn’t think you were. I mean, you’re still working with them. You carry all of my books. Multiple copies.” He turns his head and smiles wide at me. He’d done some shelf scoping.
“I have to. Too many women come in here looking at the back jacket of your books.”
He lets out a grunt. “I seriously doubt that.”
Noah tries the door a few more times, shutting himself into the office and then opening it again.
“I think this is good,” he says and for the first time, his eyes seem brighter. Oh, he still looks like he hasn’t slept in months, but there is an uptick in his attitude. “Maybe it won’t scare your customers away.”
“It does tend to give Julia a near heart attack when I open it.”
“Which one was she?”
“The one who thinks you’re a hottie,” I tease.
Recognition lights in his eyes. “She’s much too young for me.”
“I agree. I told her as much.”
“Thanks for coming to my rescue. I don’t tend to date people when I’m old enough to be their parent.”
The banter is comfortable enough I ask, “What kind of people do you date?”
There is a flash in his eyes, and when his cheeks lift with his smile, I know we’re flirting now. And yes, I have to think it through, because I don’t do this. I don’t flirt. I don’t date. I don’t know what’s making me do it with someone who is well known for being a bit standoffish and grumpy.
Noah folds up the step stool and slides it back in the office. He then takes the rag and covers the WD-40 can. “Where would you like this? You might as well keep it handy.”
I take the can and set it under the counter with the miscellaneous tools. “I’ll pay you back for all of this,” I say as he throws the sand paper into the trash.
“No need. It makes me feel useful, and I’m in your space. It’s the least I can do.” There is a moment between us that is silent as we both seem to be taking one another in. “Well, I should let you get home. I’m sure you have someone waiting for you.”
“I don’t,” I say this so quickly that Noah actually flinches. “I mean, I’m single. No one at home caring when I get there.”
There is silence between us again, only this time it’s charged with an electricity that isn’t comfort. No, this is different.
“So what’s good in this town, foodwise?” he asks.
“Other than the greens from Mrs. Packer’s?”
He chuckles at that. “Yeah.”
“Everything is good. That’s one of the bonuses of a small town too. It has to be good or it doesn’t stay open. But the bar has good food. The barbecue place is good, and always has a good crowd. There is an Italian place, if you like some ambiance with your meal.”
“Ambiance?”
“Dark setting. Candles on the table. High backed booths.”
He nods as he takes that in. “More private than the bar?”
Until that moment I wouldn’t have considered him thinking about where he could go and not be bothered.
I mean, on a normal day, he can probably walk the streets of New York and not even be recognized, especially without the goatee.
But in a small town, where people are arriving just to see him, this adds a different layer of concern for his privacy.
“You certainly wouldn’t feel on display,” I say.
Without another word, he turns back into the office and picks up his commuter bag, which he must have already packed. He turns off the light and slings his bag over his shoulder.
“How far is this place?” he asks.
“On the other side of town. Maybe four miles.”
“Your car or mine?” he says and I blink hard.
“Why would we take my car?”
“So we could get to dinner.”
“You want me to go with you to dinner?”
His eyes grow a bit wider. “Didn’t I ask you to dinner?”
“No.”
Now he blinks hard. “Oh. I meant to.”
For a moment we just stare at each other, but a laugh breaks out of me. I’ve had my share of being so in my own head, I start conversations with Lily when I’m halfway through them. Once I start to laugh, then so does he.
“I guess I had other things on my mind,” he says.
“I guess you did.”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
I study him and wonder why in the world he’d want me to go to dinner with him, but then I realize, neither one of us has anyone to hurry home to.
“I’ll drive,” I say. “Let me get my things.”