Chapter 2
two
. . .
Julia
He fills the entire doorway of Pages & Petals when he arrives for the second day of installation.
I nearly drop my coffee mug. Butch Hale.
Even his name is brutally masculine. All night I couldn't stop thinking about those massive hands that caught me on the ladder yesterday—how they nearly circled my entire waist, how warm they felt through my cardigan.
I'm not supposed to notice these things.
I'm supposed to be professional. But there's something about him that makes my skin tingle with awareness I've only read about in romance novels.
"Good morning," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
He grunts in response, those piercing eyes scanning the store before landing on me. I feel that gaze like a physical touch. It trails over my face, down my neck, lingering on the curve of my hips. Heat blooms across my cheeks.
"Made progress yesterday," he says, dropping his toolbox with a heavy thud that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. "Need to finish the wiring today."
I nod, clutching my mug tighter. "Of course. Do you…need anything from me?"
Something flashes in his eyes at that question. Something hungry that makes my stomach flutter. But it's gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
He shakes his head and grunts. Then he's moving past me, the sleeve of his flannel brushing against my arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
I should be offended by his brusqueness.
Instead, I find myself watching him move, fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his shirt as he reaches up to install a camera in the corner.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms mapped with tattoos and old scars.
Each mark seems to tell a story he'll never share.
What kind of life has he lived to become so hard-edged?
The morning passes in a strange dance. I help customers, shelve new arrivals, and process online orders, but I'm constantly aware of him.
When he moves to work near the poetry section, I find reasons to straighten books three aisles away.
When he kneels to drill something into the baseboards, I suddenly need to dust the top shelves.
But it's not fear driving me away. It's the opposite. Every time I get close to him, my heart races like I've sprinted up a hill.
"Ms. Carter."
I startle, nearly falling off the small footstool where I'm arranging a display. He's behind me, closer than I expected.
"Julia," I correct him automatically. "Please."
"Julia." The way he says my name—drawing out each syllable like he's tasting it—sends shivers down my spine.
"Yes?"
"Need to check behind these shelves. Move."
It's not a request. I step aside, hugging a stack of new releases to my chest like a shield. As he leans past me, I catch his scent—something woodsy and masculine mixed with coffee and a hint of metal. Nothing like the carefully chosen colognes of the few boys I dated in college. This is raw. Real.
He's so close I can see the stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar near his right eyebrow. My breath catches. He freezes, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment we're suspended in something that feels dangerous and inevitable.
"Sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
He doesn't respond, just continues working, but I notice his movements are stiffer now, his jaw clenched tight.
At noon, the lunch rush brings in a steady stream of customers. I lose track of Butch until I'm helping a young man find a specific fantasy novel. The customer stands too close, his smile too familiar as he asks about my recommendations.
"I could take you to dinner, discuss books," he suggests, leaning against the shelf.
Before I can form a polite rejection, a shadow falls over us. Butch towers behind me, toolbelt slung low on his hips, expression thunderous.
"Need to install a sensor here," he says flatly. "Move."
The customer glances between us, then backs away. "Maybe another time," he says to me, quickly paying for his book before leaving.
I turn to face Butch, confusion warring with something else—something that feels oddly like relief.
"There's no sensor scheduled for this section," I say quietly.
His eyes narrow. "There is now."
He brushes past me, and I swear I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds like "mine," but that can't be right. Can it? The word echoes in my head as I return to the register, my fingers trembling slightly as I count change.
By three o'clock, the store is empty except for us. I'm hyperaware of him working in the back office now, the occasional drill sound or muttered curse floating out to me. The store feels different with him in it—smaller somehow, charged with an energy I don't understand.
I'm shelving returns when he appears at the end of the aisle, blocking the exit. My heart jumps to my throat.
"Need you to come see this," he says.
I follow him to the back office, conscious of how small I feel beside his bulk. The room seems to shrink when we enter it together. He points to the monitor he's installed, showing camera feeds from various angles around the store.
"This one has night vision," he explains, pointing to a feed of the back door. "Motion activated. Anyone tries getting in, you'll know."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful. "I feel safer already."
Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "That's the point."
Our arms brush as he shows me how to operate the system. Each accidental touch sends electricity skittering across my skin. We're standing too close in this tiny office, but I can't make myself step away.
"Why a bookstore?" he asks suddenly, the question so unexpected I blink in confusion.
"I...I’ve always loved books," I admit. "They were my escape growing up. My friends when I didn't have any."
He studies me, those intense eyes seeing too much. "Not many friends now either, I'm guessing."
It's not cruel, the way he says it. Just matter-of-fact. And he's right. Most of my socializing happens across the checkout counter.
"Books are safer than people," I say with a small smile. "More predictable."
"Not all people are bad," he says, then adds more quietly, "Just most of them."
When he reaches above me to adjust something on the wall, his body cages mine momentarily. I inhale sharply, and his movements pause. For a heartbeat, he stays there, his chest nearly touching my back.
"You should be more careful," he says, voice dropped to a rumble near my ear. "Who you let in here. Who gets close to you."
My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. "Like who?"
"Like that kid today." His breath is warm against my neck. "Had his eyes all over you."
I swallow hard. "I didn't notice."
"I did."
He steps back abruptly, leaving me cold where his heat had been. I turn to find him staring at me with an intensity that should frighten me but instead makes something low in my belly tighten.
"Almost done," he says. "One more day should finish it."
One more day. I should feel relieved that my store will soon be back to normal. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to disappointment.
As he gathers his tools to leave, his gaze catches mine again. This time, I'm certain I hear him mutter "mine" under his breath before he turns away.
Mine. The word follows me through the rest of the afternoon, echoing in my head as I close up the store. Mine. Such a possessive word should terrify me. So why does it make me feel claimed in a way that sets my skin on fire?
Why do I find myself counting the hours until tomorrow, when he'll return?