13. Alice
ALICE
“Left, Colt! No, my left! Pivot!” My hands flutter as I direct Colt’s progress. “If we scratch these floors, I’m gonna cry, and we both know I’m an ugly crier.”
Colt is pure muscle and concentrated effort, maneuvering a gleaming table saw through my front door. The early September humidity is already doing a number on us, and we haven’t even hit the hottest part of the day.
“Alice, if you don't stop moving your hands, I’m going to lose my depth perception,” Colt grunts, his voice strained but teasing.
He shifts his weight, his forearms tensing as he hoists the heavy equipment.
His white cotton t-shirt clings to his back, outlining the broad planes of his shoulders in a way that makes my brain spin.
“Focusing! I am a beacon of focus,” I promise, my attention locked on the way his muscles flex, imagining how those arms would feel wrapped around me. “Okay, three more inches toward the stairs. Now tilt it. Yes! Like that. Keep coming...and...touchdown!” I throw my arms in the air like a referee.
Colt eases the machine onto the drop cloth in what used to be the family dining room. Today, it’s the staging area for my future. The heavy thud of the saw hitting the floor vibrates through the soles of my feet. I let out a shaky exhale and toss him a triumphant grin.
“See?” I wink. “Dream team.”
Colt looks around the room with an appreciative nod. “It’s a good piece of kit. It’ll make the custom shelving go twice as fast.”
He moves into the kitchen to wash his hands, and I bend down to inspect the saw, pushing random pieces as if I know what they do.
“Be right back,” Colt calls over his shoulder.
I pop up to find him staring through the kitchen window as he dries his hands. He rehangs the dishtowel before disappearing into the mudroom, only to reappear on the other side of the window.
Gazing out, I realize with a pang of guilt that I never opened the coop this morning.
Pickles, Mabel, and Dixie are huddled against the entrance to their run, agitated beaks dragging across the wire mesh.
I’d been so preoccupied with the arrival of the carpentry tools that I forgot about my own girls.
Pickles will have my head for this transgression.
I lean against the counter, watching Colt through the glass. The sun filters through the giant bur oaks, casting long, dappled shadows across the grass and Colt’s shoulders. He unlatches the coop door, and the hens burst out like shots from a cannon.
Pickles beelines for the grain Colt scatters, pecking and flapping her wings at Dixie to scare her off.
Colt leans down and scoops up Dixie. She’s a Barred Rock with striking black-and-white stripes, and usually, she’s the most skittish of the trio.
But in Colt’s hold, she settles instantly.
He tucks her under his arm, his large, calloused hand stroking her feathers.
After murmuring a few words to her, he opens his palm, offering Dixie a private buffet.
There is something so devastatingly attractive about a man strong enough to renovate a house but gentle enough to comfort a rebuked chicken.
For a moment, I’m the happiest woman in Holly River.
But then, as quickly as the warmth came, a cold shiver of reality follows.
I look around my house, which is in a total state of disarray.
This is the place where I grew up, the place I’m betting everything on.
We have two and a half months until the Fall Festival, and the weight of what-ifs is crushing.
What if this town can’t support a bookstore? What if I’ll be out of my depth as the owner? The fear is a physical ache in my chest, a tightening of my throat that makes it hard to swallow.
Colt catches me watching him through the window and gives an easy smile—the kind of smile that says everything is under control.
It’s going to work out, I think to myself.
He strides back inside. “Ready to start moving stuff?”
I tighten my ponytail. “Am I ready to embarrass you with my staggering strength? Yes. Yes, I am.”
Colt shakes his head with a chuckle. “What stays?”
I point to the pieces I’ve lived with my whole life, the ones that will provide the cozy seating nooks for my future customers. “The velvet couch, those wingback chairs, and that coffee table. Everything else goes.”
“Let’s start with the end tables and lamps.” Colt motions around the room. “Small stuff first to clear a path.”
Over the next two hours, we move credenzas, end tables, boxes of décor, and framed artwork that hasn't seen the light of day in years.
Colt is in his element, muscles tightening and releasing with every lift.
His white t-shirt grows damp with sweat, becoming nearly translucent against sun-kissed skin.
I watch his back flex as he carries a heavy crate toward the U-Haul, and heat pulses between my legs.
My imagination, fueled by years of reading the very books I plan to sell, takes a wild, unauthorized detour.
I envision Colt dropping the crate, the sound of it hitting the floor echoing through the empty rooms. Then he strides over to me, his eyes dark with a hunger he’s been hiding all morning but can no longer suppress.
He grabs my waist, his large hands spanning the curve of my hips, and lifts me onto the carpentry table he just moved in.
He doesn't say a word, he just pulls my dress up around my hips. And then his hands are on his jeans. He’s tearing the zipper down, freeing himself, his ravenous eyes never leaving mine.
And then he does speak, kissing my neck before whispering in my ear, “Alice, spread your legs wider for me,” as he positions himself between them.
And when I don’t immediately respond—because this is Colt Mitchell we’re talking about, and I didn’t know he had it in him—he takes my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him, and says, “Are you going to be a good girl for me, Alice, and do as I asked?”
“Alice? You okay? You’re looking a little...pink.” Colt pauses by the door with a floor lamp in each hand.
“Just the heat!” I force out, grabbing a random box to hide my shaking hands.
He sets the lamps in the U-Haul and wipes his forehead with his sleeve.
I’m right behind him with the box, and what’s left of my virtue.
The two of us head back inside, but once we cross the threshold, Colt stops abruptly and turns to face me.
He shifts his weight, looking down at his boots, then back up.
“Hey, so, since we’re making such good time today, I was thinking maybe tonight we could—”
“Alice! Oh, my god, look at this lighting!” The front door swings open, and Maggie strides in like she owns the place. Almost immediately, she rips out her phone and starts filming. “Dude, this place is going to kill on Instagram!”
“Hi, Mags,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment that she’s interrupted at the worst possible moment.
Maggie follows us as we grab opposite ends of the dining table and begin moving it. “Yes, exactly! Just like that. Alice, toss your ponytail to the other shoulder. Colt, off with the shirt, please.”
“Maggie!” I bark a laugh, trying not to drop the table.
“Oh, sorry.” Maggie places two fingers beneath the center of the table. “I gotch y’all.”
We head toward the U-Haul, but right when I’m about to step off the porch stairs, I misjudge the distance and slam my shin against the railing.
“Ow!” I yelp, hopping on one leg.
Colt is there in a heartbeat. He takes the weight of the table from me and sets it down. “You okay? Let me see.”
He guides me to the porch steps, his hand firm on my arm. I sit down, clutching my shin, which is already throbbing. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Colt ignores my protest and kneels in the dirt at my feet. He gently moves my hand away to inspect the damage. His touch is so tender that it makes my heart do a somersault. “That’s going to leave a bruise. Don't move. I’ll be right back.”
Meanwhile, Maggie is crouched three feet away, filming. “This is gold,” she whispers.
“Maggie, if you post that, I’ll ban you from the shop for life.”
“Too late. I already started the account.” Maggie flops into the porch swing, tapping furiously at her screen.
I lean my head back against the railing. “I was going to do that this weekend.”
“You were going to do a lot of things this weekend,” Maggie corrects, typing away. “Including a United States Marine.”
“Maggie!”
Maggie grins without looking up.
I make an everything-is-normal face when Colt returns. He dabs at my shin with a cool rag, and I try not to imagine more dirty thoughts, like his hand sliding higher up my thigh while my friend magically disappears in a puff of purple–no, pink—smoke.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” I turn to Maggie, mostly to distract her from saying anything else incriminating. “We’re almost done, and I think we’ve earned pizza.”
“Pizza? And I get to stay and harass you both? In!” Maggie stands and pockets her phone.
An hour later, the U-Haul is packed and locked.
We’re exhausted, covered in a fine layer of dust, and starving.
Since the kitchen and dining tables are currently parked in the back of the truck, we’re huddled around the kitchen bar on stools.
Soon, this view into the living room will be gone.
Colt is going to build a partition wall to separate the kitchen from the retail space.
The thought is both exciting and a little sad, because every step toward my dream is a step away from the childhood home I remember.
I slide a plate of pepperoni pizza toward Maggie and pour three glasses of sweet tea.
“So.” Maggie takes a bite of pizza. “Tell me the vision again. Books everywhere, right? Like, a hoarder-level situation?”
My excitement returns as I gaze around the rooms. “Yep. That’s the idea.”
“What about your parents' old office?” Maggie gestures toward the front of the house.
“Books,” I say.
“The guest bedroom?”
“More books.”
“Living room, dining room, den?”
“Dirty magazines,” I say around a mouthful of pizza. “Just wall-to-wall smut.”
Maggie slaps her hand down on the counter. “Hot damn! That’s my kinda bookstore, Sinclair! I’ll be your best customer.”
Colt chokes on his iced tea, coughing into his napkin while we dissolve into laughter.
When he finally catches his breath, his eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass.
There’s a warmth there, a shared past, a shared endeavor, and for a second, it’s like we’re alone again.
Goosebumps race across my skin as his eyes drop to my mouth.
Maggie, missing nothing, catches the look. She stops mid-chew, her gaze darting between the two of us. She raises a groomed eyebrow and gives me a look that is essentially a three-page interrogation. Heat crawls up my neck, and I concentrate very hard on my pizza crust.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes on the counter. The screen shows a FaceTime request from Grant.
I look at Colt questioningly. Along with my parents, Grant has been skeptical, to say the least, about my bookstore venture.
Colt gives an encouraging nod. “Answer it. Let him see the progress.”
I swipe the screen, and my brother’s face fills the frame. He’s wearing a crisp polo shirt, looking precisely like what he is—a successful, young businessman and vice president of Sinclair Systems.
“Hey, Black Sheep.” Grant grins. “How’s the demolition of our family home going? Was your childhood really that traumatic?”
“Funny.” I turn the phone to show him the empty rooms. “The furniture is out, the tools are in, and I only have one minor leg injury.”
“She’s doing great, Grant.” Colt leans into the frame.
“Hey, man! Good to see you. Blink twice if you need help,” Grant jokes.
“Alice, you know that place is going to be a money pit, right? Are you allergic to making money? Do you have a body buried in the backyard you don’t want anyone knowing about?
Dad is actively recruiting for a marketing position.
It comes with this thing called a salary. And health insurance. Think about it.”
“I’m thinking about how much I like not hearing you talk,” I retort.
Maggie laughs, and Grant’s eyes narrow. “Is that Maggie?” he asks.
Maggie begins waving her arms frantically and mouthing I’m not here!
I turn the phone around. The second the camera hits her, Maggie’s entire persona shifts. “Hiii, Grant! How’ve you been? You look so corporate. Your collar is very… stiff.”
Grant grins. “Maggie Evans. How those tits holding up? Alice, tilt the phone down.”
“Jesus,” Maggie groans.
“Grant!” I yell.
“Let me talk to Colt,” Grant says.
I hand the phone over and watch as the two of them fall into their old rhythm. Grant hassles Colt about his time in the military, and Colt fires back with inside jokes from their football days.
While they talk, my eyes wander to the calendar I hung on the pantry door. I’ve already crossed out today with a big X.
The days are disappearing.
If I don't pull this off, I lose everything I care about—this house, this town, and all the people who live here. Because if I fail, what’s left for me?
Would I really be happy waiting tables at The Buttermilk Cafe for the rest of my life?
Most Holly River locals either run their own business or work for someone who does.
If I can’t hack the first one, I’m left with the latter.
And Grant’s right, I do need things like income and dental checkups.
As I look at Colt, laughing at something Grant said, a new fear takes root. Once the bookshelves are built, once the paint is dry and the open sign is flipped on, Colt is leaving.
And the thought of this house without him—without the sound of his soft knock on the front door each morning, or his diligent attention to the maintenance of my home, or the way he checks on me when I’m not looking, as if assuring himself I’m still in one piece…
Losing all that, losing Colt, is almost as terrifying as the thought of losing my bookshop.
It’s almost as if my dreams for my future, and Colt Mitchell, are becoming one and the same.