8. Norah
Chapter eight
Norah
The electricians arrive at seven-fifteen. Silas isn’t with them.
Two men come in carrying heavy red toolboxes and a work order on a tablet. I step back to let them in. Professional. Unbothered. A woman who ordered a ceiling fan installation and is receiving a ceiling fan installation.
The broad-shouldered one with an easy grin is the same one from the hardware store.
The one who caught my eye over the flatbed cart and looked away too quickly.
He notices me the same way he did then—aware, entertained, keeping it to himself.
I decide I like him for his discretion even while I’m annoyed by what the discretion implies.
“Fan’s still boxed up in the back,” I say.
“Yes ma’am,” he says. The grin stays exactly where it is.
The other one is older, more serious, already moving toward the back with the brisk purpose of someone who lost interest in small talk years ago. I appreciate that about him immediately.
I lead them to where I stashed the box and go back to closing.
Register first, with the satisfying click when it balances cleanly and the receipts stacked and squared.
Then I dim the lights along the front aisle but leave the lamp on the counter bright.
I move fast to get out of their way before they come back up.
The last customer left twenty minutes ago. Normally I like this hour. Tonight I keep listening to the sounds from the back room, tools clinking together and the occasional low exchange between the two men. I try not to agonize over wondering if I misunderstood when Silas said he was coming.
I straighten a display near the window that doesn’t need straightening and then straighten it again.
Seven-forty five comes and goes.
I move to the biography section and pull three books that have drifted out of alphabetical order.
Then the literary fiction, where someone has shelved a Zadie Smith between two Updikes, minor for most people but enough to irritate me.
I work slowly, more slowly than necessary, because keeping my hands busy is preferable to checking the time again.
He said Thursday. It’s Thursday. He said he’d come with them.
He didn’t.
I’m fine with this. Completely fine. I blow out the candle on the counter, the cedar one I picked up the other day.
Smoke curls from the wick for a few seconds.
A sigh escapes me, and I move to the back shelves where the remainders and sales rack live, because I can always find a shelf that needs work.
The broad-shouldered one finds me in the back at eight-fifteen. He leans against a shelf, in no hurry. He looks around the shop with obvious appreciation.
“Nice shop,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You been here long?”
“Three years.”
He nods, taking in the shelves, the handwritten signage, the small step stools and stacks of books on the floor, waiting to be shelved. “My mother would lose her mind in here,” he says. “She’s got a thing for bookshops. Says they smell like possibility.” He pauses. “Her words, not mine.”
“She’s not wrong,” I say.
He grins at that, warm and genuine. “I’ll tell her you said so.”
I almost ask where Silas is. I don’t. If I ask, I have to admit I expected him.
His grin fades a little. Apparently, I’m not as hard to read as I thought.
I almost ask. I get close enough to feel the shape of the question and then I don’t ask it, because asking makes it expected, and because I already know the answer, and I’d rather not hear it out loud.
He reads all of that without me saying any of it. The grin eases back.
“Almost done up there,” he says, and disappears again.
They finish at eight-twenty.
“All done. You want to test it?”
I test it. The fan runs smooth, no rattle, no grinding. The remote might as well be the newest modern wonder. Done right.
“Perfect,” I say.
They pack up. Tools back in boxes, work order signed, the older one already heading for the door. The broad-shouldered one lingers a beat, then looks toward the door instead of at me.
He says it.
“He got held up,” he says. “At the warehouse.”
There it is.
Not quite looking at me. Delivering the words without making it more than it is.
“Thanks for coming out,” I say.
He nods. They go.
I lock the door and look at the new fan turning overhead.
He got held up at the warehouse is the kind of thing you say when the real reason is something you’ve been told not to explain.
I know this. He knows I know this. The broad-shouldered one with the grin definitely knows this, He said it to the doorframe instead of to my face.
I stand there for a moment longer than I need to.
I sigh again. Only the umpteenth time I’ve done that since the men arrived.
Then I go behind the counter and start on the shelf signs for the new releases, three new titles that came in Tuesday that I’ve been meaning to get up all week.
I write the first one. Read it back. It’s good. I write the second.
The fan turns overhead, smooth and even, moving the air the way I need it to.
I write the third shelf sign, also good, and put the marker down. This work can wait until morning. I have a new book on my nightstand I’m dying to start, and there is no good reason for me to still be here at eight-thirty.
Still, I don’t go home.
I find the box of new releases that need pricing and sit on the stool behind the counter. The stickers go on fast. But there are only fifteen books, and I can only stretch that out so long.
The knock comes at eight forty-seven.
Two knocks, evenly spaced. I set down the book in my hands and cross to the door.
I stare at him through the glass, not moving. He’s in a dark jacket, no tie. An end-of-day look that shouldn’t look as good as it does on him. But shit. He looks like a cross between a young Andy Garcia and a younger Al Pacino. Only bigger.
Relief hits first. Attraction follows close behind, which is irritating because I would prefer to be annoyed with him for at least thirty seconds.
I open the door, not fully, because I’m not completely confident he’s here for any other reason than to make sure his guys showed up. He glances past me into the shop, taking in the fan turning over the counter. His eyes come back to me.
“Your guys already left,” I say.
He’s still not telling me why. I let him keep that part for now.
“I know.” He meets my eyes. “I got held up at the warehouse.”
He’s not going to say what it actually was. He knows I know that. We’re both going to let it sit there.
He doesn’t move. He could say goodnight and leave. He doesn’t. “The fan works,” I say, opening the door wider and stepping back to let him in.
When he’s in, I lock the door behind him, force of habit. He walks around the counter, looking up, inspecting the fan blades, listening for the wrong sounds. I want to roll my eyes. We both know the fan doesn’t need a quality assurance check, and he’s buying time to keep from talking.
Finally he says, “You stayed late.”
“I live close,” I say. “It wasn’t a hardship.”
“Even so, I’m sure it’s good to get home and relax.”
I ignore his pointed digging. No doubt he wants me to admit I was hoping he’d show up. Nope. Not happening.
I sigh. It’s late, and I’m tired. I throw him a bone anyway.
“I’m glad you came. Even late. I was about to turn the lights off and head out.”
The corners of his mouth lift. He knows I’m lying and lets me get away with it.
We stand in the middle of the shop, the new fan running overhead, approximately one foot of distance between us. The electricians are gone. The door is locked. Neither of us says goodnight.
He closes the distance first.
Not fast. With intention, which is different, and somehow worse for my composure.
His hand comes up to the side of my face, steady and warm—he runs hotter than me, hotter than any human, and I lean into it without thinking, my whole body tilting toward the heat of him before my brain has a vote in the matter.
His mouth finds mine, and the shop drops away.
It’s not careful. Not after the first few seconds. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair and the kiss deepens. A low sound catches in his throat, and I feel it against my mouth. I place my hands flat against the front of his jacket, not to slow him down, but because I want him closer.
His hands find my waist, then my back, pulling me flush against him with a patience that feels deliberately held, like he’s giving me less than what he actually wants to give.
I feel exactly how affected he is, the hard line of him against my hip, and desire that has been quiet for a very long time wakes up all at once and wants more of this, wants all of it, and the surprise of that awareness is real.
I haven’t wanted anything like this in longer than I want to admit. Certainly not the last perfectly nice, entirely forgettable man I spent six tepid months dating because Penny kept asking when I was going to put myself out there. Silas is nothing like him.
I stop thinking about the excuse he didn’t quite make.
My hands slide up his chest. His mouth moves over mine again, and one of his hands spreads across my lower back. For a few seconds, I am perfectly willing to find out how much further he’ll go.
I could take him home. I want to.
I stop thinking entirely. My hands are still pressed hard against him, his are still at my back, both of us breathing harder than we were a minute ago.
And then I pull back.
He stops immediately. His hands stay where they are, but he doesn’t pull me closer.
He reads it immediately. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. Only holds the space and waits, the way he waits for everything, with the complete unhurried patience of a man who has decided that what he wants is worth whatever it takes to get there right.
I look up at him.
I want him. That’s not the problem. I want to choose the night because I’m ready, not because he showed up late, kissed me senseless, and I forgot every plan I had for the evening.
“Not tonight,” I say.
Not an apology or a door closing. Just the truth of where I am—I want it to be the right night, and this one arrived sideways with an excuse I didn’t believe and a knock at eight-forty-seven and one foot of distance that closed before either of us planned it. That’s not the night I want this to be.
He nods once.
“Thursdays are busy at work,” he says.
“I doubt your Thursdays are any busier than any other day,” I say.
His eyes widen, a hint of mirth behind them. “Next time I’ll be on time.”
“Next time don’t make up a reason,” I say.
He holds my gaze. His mouth tightens briefly, and he gives me a small nod. Busted.
He holds my gaze. Honesty moves through his expression. Caught, and not trying to get uncaught.
“Next time I won’t,” he says.
I asked for a ceiling fan.
I know what I’m asking for now. I’ve known for a while now. I want Silas, but I want him on my terms, on a night I choose, without an excuse neither of us believes.
I turn off the last light and let him walk me to my car.