4. fallon
FOUR
fallon
I savor the shock that ripples across the man’s face. His reaction to my simple request to return my book to its proper place hinted at his discomfort with relinquishing control. I noticed him when he walked in, trailing behind the two men he arrived with. All three of them are handsome, but the one glaring at me possesses a strikingly somber beauty. A permanent brooding expression seems etched into his features. The only time I’ve sensed emotion from him thus far is this moment and the one when I accused him of not being able to read.
As much as I enjoyed riling him up, my primary objective now is to defend the years I’ve poured into collecting rare first editions of classic novels. I will not allow anyone to disrespect my collection, no matter how attractive they might be.
Yet, he stands his ground, bewildered. On the other hand, I gracefully maneuver around him and head toward the door to open it for him. But before I can do so, Thomas steps in with a smile that sparkles with amusement. “Mads, what’s going on? Why are you kicking customers out of our store?” Though his tone is light, the tension living in the three feet between me and the stone-cold man behind me is palpable.
I didn’t realize Thomas was watching my interaction unfold. “He… irritates me,” I whisper, turning my head to glance at the perpetrator.
His eyes narrow on me in return.
Thomas, in all his teasing glory, lets out a snort. “Well, Mads, you get on my nerves sometimes, but I don’t kick you out, do I?”
I scowl but can’t argue. Though I might own the store on paper, Thomas has been here since it opened. It’s as much his as it is mine. If he wanted to someday kick me out, I imagine he would.
“I apologize for the misunderstanding,” Thomas says, but not to me. He gently takes hold of my shoulders and spins me around, pinning my back against his chest and holding me tightly. He must think I’m going to bolt. “Fallon is fiercely protective of her books, which makes the store run so well. Right, Mads?”
I force a slight grin and part my lips to give a faux apology, but I can’t muster the strength to follow through. Instead, I gesture toward the bookshelves on the left… away from my collection. “Let Thomas know if you need anything.”
Thomas sighs loudly behind me.
The man steps toward me but is stopped by a hand on his chest. His friends must’ve become curious about his tense interaction with me, who looks minuscule between all four men surrounding me. One of his friends extends a hand toward me. “I believe introductions will lessen the tension. I’m Andrew. I’m impressed by the selection you offer in the Non-Fiction genre. Typically, I can only find newer releases in stores. You have titles that date back decades.”
I relax my shoulders and take Andrew’s hand. I note his sandy-blond hair and brown eyes against pale skin—typical for this time of year in New Hampshire. “Thank you. Most of my clientele is younger, but the tourists that stop in usually gravitate toward Non-Fiction.”
With his hand still on my enemy’s chest, the other friend chuckles. “I think you meant to say ‘old’.” He drops his hand and extends it toward me instead. “I’m Jace. You should’ve started with me.”
Jace is almost as striking as the mysterious one. Tall, with dark, unkempt hair and hazel eyes, he has a dark complexion that would make him an excellent cover model for any Dark Romance novel. The only unattractive quality so far is that he seems to know how beautiful he is.
I take Jace’s hand with a forced laugh, but my gaze lands directly on the nameless man. Jace notices and drops my hand to place it on his friend’s shoulder. “And this charmer is Fitz.”
Fitz. It’s obviously a nickname—unless his parents just really admired the Boston politician.
“Fitz,” Fallon repeats, my disdain for him momentarily forgotten as we lock eyes. “What a rotten crowd,” I say softly, curiosity brimming. Will he understand the reference, or am I correct in assuming he hasn’t read more than the price tag on an expensive pair of pants?
With a slight upturn of his mouth, Fitz nods once. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
I grin. A truce. It’s a fleeting moment.
I jump when the familiar voice of my delivery man returns me to the present, breaking the stare-down between me and Fitz. “No one answered the back door,” Clyde says. He’s an older gentleman, sweet as sugar, and too frail to move the boxes himself. I could request someone different from the delivery company, but I’ve grown fond of Clyde and admire his refusal to retire—despite the pressure from his management. Maybe if the store grows, I can offer Clyde a position here. I wouldn’t mind seeing him every morning.
Unfortunately, Clyde’s stubbornness means Thomas and I have to carry the boxes in from the truck with the assistance of our one dolly. “I forgot what day it is,” I say with a sigh, glancing at the shelves behind me. The store’s inventory moves so quickly that I have shipments coming every three days, with Saturdays always being the largest.
Thomas returns to the register to assist the growing line of customers waiting to check out, which leaves me to start the heavy lifting.
I return my attention to the three lingering men. “If you’ll excuse me?—”
“Do you need help?” Fitz inquires.
I startle at the offer. “No, but thank you. Thomas will help me when he finishes closing the store…”
Andrew gestures behind me at the lingering patrons. “That could be a while. Let us help you. It’ll go much quicker with four sets of hands. Believe me, we understand you’re capable of doing it alone.”
He’s appealing to my feminist side, which draws a small grin from me. They’re trying to make it impossible for me to argue. It’s valiant, really. “You’re not here to help me carry in dozens of boxes. You came for the books…” I pause to lift my chin toward the small cup in Jace’s hand. “And my espresso machine, apparently.”
Jace tips the cup to his lips and finishes the rest in one swallow. “And look at that, I’m finished. I’m bored now.” He rolls his neck and extends his arms in a dramatic show of stretching. “I think some manual labor is precisely what’s needed. It’s been a while.”
I note the roll of Fitz’s eyes before he refocuses on me. “Lead the way.”
I look at each of them, contemplating. I don’t relish accepting help, especially from customers, but I doubt they will ever set foot in here again. They don’t seem like the leisurely, stroll-through-the-bookstore type of guys. “How many boxes are there, Clyde?”
“Twenty-four, Ms. Fallon.”
I cringe. Moving even half of those sends aches through my entire body. With a slight sigh and a final act of defiance, I lock eyes with Fitz. “Your slacks might get dirty.”
He quirks an eyebrow, but I swear I catch a hint of amusement. “Luckily, I heard there’s a J. Crew not far from here.”