9. hayes
NINE
hayes
A fter arriving at my new apartment after work, I wasn’t surprised to find Andrew waiting for me. We haven’t talked much yet—he’s been on calls ever since arriving—but I anticipate he won’t be too pleased about what I need to tell him.
I lean back in my chair, the coolness of the leather against my skin grounding me in the moment. Andrew sits across from me, fiddling with his phone. Fortunately, he kept the trip secret, giving us time to talk without Jace nearby.
“Alright, so what’s going on?’ he asks without looking up. “How was your first day working with Fallon?”
I run a hand through my hair, setting the glass of water in front of me down on the table. “I used your last name and Social Security number on the new hire paperwork,” I say, trying to sound casual about it.
Andrew finally looks up, his brow furrowing as his gaze locks onto mine. “Wait. You did what?”
I sigh, feeling the weight of the situation settling in my chest. “I know, I know. It’s... not ideal. But I can’t have Fallon knowing who I am—not yet, anyway. If she does, it’ll be game over before the fun starts.”
Andrew leans back, clearly taken aback. “And you think this is the best way to go about it? Pretend to be someone else? What if she figures it out?”
I see the disapproval in his eyes, and it stings a little. But I’m not about to back down. “I didn’t have much of a choice. I can’t exactly reveal my identity just yet. Not when my father’s already set his sights on taking her business down.”
Andrew is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he mutters, “This isn’t going to end well, you know.”
“I know,” I say, but I can’t bring myself to regret the decision. Not yet, anyway.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I pick it up without thinking. It’s a text from Thomas. He must’ve grabbed my number from the paperwork—one of the only true things I wrote down. And I can’t help but wonder if maybe Fallon added me to her contacts, too. Or why she isn’t the one texting me.
Fitz, I’ll deny I ever told you this.
Fallon is working late tonight and might need help with inventory. One of the shipments got fucked up and came in tonight instead.
I’d help, but Ansel is sick with the flu. I might not be in tomorrow.
Secret is safe with me.
On my way.
Thank you, President Grant.
I can’t help but smirk. “Speak of the devil. I’m being beckoned.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow. “You’re going back there tonight?”
I pause for a moment, weighing my options. “Yeah, she needs me. And it’s an opportunity to learn more about her. Go to Boston, Andrew. Come back this weekend.”
Andrew shoots me a look of disbelief but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he stands and grabs his jacket. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
Later that evening, I’m walking down the aisles of Shoreline Scribes. The warm, familiar scent of coffee and old books envelops me. Fallon is at the register, ringing up a couple of customers. Her attention is entirely on them, and I make sure to keep my presence low-key as I approach the back.
I stay silent until she wraps up what she’s doing, content to watch her as she powers down the iPads and locks the front door. “Is everything okay?” I ask as she approaches, leaning against the doorframe of the stockroom.
She glances up from her phone, her face lighting up slightly at seeing me. “Fitz,” she says, her voice a little surprised but not unwelcoming. “Thomas called you, didn’t he?”
I grin slightly. “I plead the fifth. I’m here to help, Fallon. You should’ve called me.”
She tightens the bun on her head, though it does nothing to calm the wild strays. “I don’t have your number.”
That answers my question. She didn’t pull it from the paperwork. “Hand me your phone,” I demand gently.
She hands it over without hesitation. With a chuckle, I flip it around and hold it in front of her face to unlock it. Her cheeks flush, but she smiles as she watches me input my name and number into her contacts. “You have no excuse now, Fallon. If you need me, day or night, you call me. Deal?”
She slips her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and studies me for a few seconds. Her earlier look of surprise lingers, but it’s mingled with something more now—understanding, maybe. “I promise.”
“Great. Now, show me these unwelcome boxes.” I take a step back to enter the storeroom, and she follows. “Do your shipments often switch like this? Do I need to plan unscheduled deliveries for my nights?”
That draws a small laugh from her. “Never say never… but no, never. This is the first time it’s ever happened, which means I’ll have too many of something and might need to cancel a future delivery of a title.”
I start opening the boxes. “Nah. You seem to move inventory quickly enough. I’d be more concerned about shelf space back here.” I reorganized the entire backroom during my earlier shift, dividing titles by genre. Her romance and fantasy shelves are the most bare, simply because those are the titles she seems to sell the most of. “Luckily, these are all signed. You move these fast, don’t you?”
“It depends on which book it is.” She peeks into the boxes, a look of relief washing over her. “But yes, these will move quickly. We can even put some out on the floor because I sold out of this one in a day.” She points to the market’s current most popular book. “I don’t know how many more I’ll receive of them signed.”
I try to maintain a look of disinterest when I ask, “How did you manage to get them signed in the first place?”
She bends over to try and lift a box of hardcovers, then blows her bangs off her forehead with a resigned sigh. I decide to spare her the humiliation of having to ask for my help—just this once—and lift the box with ease, following her to a table at the front of the store.
“I have a lot of great relationships with agents. Before I opened, I tried to build connections with publishers. It didn’t go badly, but nothing was sticking. It wasn’t until I started attending book conventions in large cities that I made headway. Agents loved the idea of their author’s books being in indie bookstores.”
I listen intently while assisting with unpacking the books. “But don’t box stores move larger amounts of inventory quicker?”
“Sure,” she says with a shrug. “But ever since the pandemic, reading has become more about bonding with like-minded individuals. It’s a community more than it’s ever been. Much of my customer base is made of friend groups who want to come in just to bond over their love for reading. They come in, they grab some coffee, and they just…. Talk. To me, to each other. And then we exchange socials and keep the conversation going digitally.”
My brow furrows. “And authors want this?”
She breaks down the empty box, sticking the pieces of tape to her jeans. “Most authors I’ve met want to connect with their readers. Authors write the stories, but readers share the stories. You might have more options when you walk into a box store, but you’re missing intimacy. When you walk into my store, I want you to feel like you’re friends with me. I’ll push an author’s book until I’m blue in the face. Do you get that from your typical box store? Sure, there are exceptions, but turnover rates are so fast that it makes it difficult to establish relationships.”
I think back to the moment during my first visit to Shoreline Scribes and how protective the customer seemed over Fallon and her table of annotated books. Her customers think of her as their friend, which builds trust and keeps them returning. FFJ’s stores might have some employees who think like Fallon, but they don’t have the time to stop and have in-depth conversations with each customer.
Fallon prioritizes it.
Fallon’s phone pings with a text notification, and she pauses to pull her phone from her jeans. With an eye roll, she reads the text and drops her phone to the table.
I ask, “Everything okay?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “The impromptu delivery is courtesy of this author’s agent. He wants a little more with me than the standard agent-and-book-store-owner relationship. He’s in town and wants to grab dinner later.”
My hand flexes at my side. “Oh? Are you going?”
She glances down at her clothing, pulling the tape from her jeans and smoothing it over the cardboard box. “I don’t have time to change, but it’s an important relationship I need to maintain. I’ll have him meet me somewhere close to my apartment. Hopefully, it won’t last too long.”
Close to her apartment? So he can come over after?
I need to ensure that won’t happen.