The History Between (Back to Fontain #1)

Prologue

They were also reusable.

Up to five to ten times when washed well with soap and water in between uses, if the website I’m on can be trusted.

This information alone wouldn’t normally faze me—working in an antique store for nearly two decades, I’ve heard and seen a lot weirder.

And, as someone who thrives on making sound choices and has spent thirty-four years being overly cautious, I’d usually be thrilled by any invention that resulted in increased odds of safety and predictability.

Not in the mood for a baby or venereal disease? Problem solved.

Great news.

Fabulous.

What makes this less than ideal is that on the counter in front of me mixed with the pile of antique condom tins is something that resembles the dried skin of a salmon.

My eyes go from the laptop I’m using for pricing research back to the filet next to the register. The item on my screen is an exact match.

“Good lord,” I mutter. I am not touching that thing.

With a pencil from an old coffee can, I poke the tip of the reusable item and slowly drag it toward the opposite edge of the six-foot-long counter nearest the trash can.

The tins could go for a few hundred dollars.

There’s minimal rusting, the wording is legible, and the colors are still vibrant.

They’ll be considered mint, and collectors will pay.

But all the money in the world won’t make me save this condom that probably wrapped around an archaic appendage a century ago.

“Rue?” My mother’s shouted voice echoes down the hall from her office.

“Yeah?” I holler in response, zigzagging the condom through the tins.

“I have pottery this afternoon so I’m leaving early.” She says it like I don’t have her entire schedule saved in my calendar. “We’re doing a horsehair raku firing.”

I’m too focused on the task at hand to worry about her latest creative endeavors. “Sounds fun.”

I skirt the salmon sack around a stack of papers at the same time the bells from the door jingle. Habitually, I pause my movements, lift my gaze over the shelves that separate me from the entrance, then deliver a practiced smile paired with my automatic, “Afternoon. Welcome to Old Vines.”

I’ve called that greeting hundreds of times.

Since my parents bought the store when I was sixteen and I started working here, maybe thousands.

I recite my greeting, wait for the exchange of polite smiles that are inevitably smiled, then get back to whatever I’m doing.

There’s comfort in the predictability of it all.

Other than unexpected items like the condom at hand, there’s a certainty to it all that fills my days with calm.

Only this time, it’s different.

This time, my smile falters at the sight of the man strolling in.

His blond hair is short yet disheveled, and he’s wearing a bright pink button-up shirt—completely obnoxious—covered in a pattern I can’t quite make out.

Are those ice cream cones? But it’s his face that pulls me in—all angled angles and edged edges with dark eyes.

Perfect symmetry sliced with a lopsided grin.

“Afternoon,” he replies.

Over the rows of shelves filled with items from history between us—furniture, clothing, bottles, plates, match cars, and old comics—our eyes meet.

“Afternoon,” I respond, then wince. I already said that.

He clears his throat to poorly hide a laugh. When he says, “Afternoon” once again, his voice carries enough amusement it heats my cheeks and turns the practiced smile on my lips genuine.

I blow my bangs out of my eyes and press the pencil a little harder into the condom, not budging an inch as he begins to stroll the store. He inspects random items as he goes, moving with ease and without a care in the world. He starts to whistle, and I like the sound.

Above the horizon line of the shelves, our eyes keep finding one another’s. He’s so handsome and his shirt is so outrageous and I’ve never felt more rattled by the mere presence of another person.

I force my attention back to the counter, having to remind myself why all these tins are in front of me and what the hell I’m doing with this pencil. I remember the task at hand only to forget it, my eyes wandering all over the store to find him.

At a vintage travel poster for Cuba, he angles his head to thoroughly study it.

He crosses his arms over his chest—one of which I now see is covered in tattoos—then leans closer to read the fine print.

I detest tattoos and firmly believe that people who get them are ridiculously impulsive and lack foresight.

They’ll fade, they’ll stretch, they’ll represent a version of a person who no longer exists.

But on him: perfection.

On him: I want to know what every line means.

When his eyes meet mine, I’m caught once again. But once again, I don’t care, because once again, we’re smiling at each other. Smiling until my cheeks hurt at the absurdity of whatever’s happening.

A woman enters the store while he saunters up and down every aisle. She asks about a cameo brooch, and I know where he is as I do my best to help her. Know what shelf he’s looking at, what items he touches.

I’d feel embarrassed if every time I looked his way he wasn’t already doing the same.

Then—finally—he’s at the counter, right across from me, face made for fun more perfect up close than it was across the store.

I smile at the absurdity of the silent dance we just did only for it to widen when he sets a vintage Hohner harmonica on the counter.

“You always doodle on expired prophylactics?” he asks.

“What?” My eyes widen and heart skips. “No. Why?”

He gestures at the tins and, worse, the used condom still pinned in place right next to the harmonica.

“Oh.” I stare at it, unable to get a grip on myself. “Ha!” In a swift motion, I drag it to the edge of the counter where it drops into the trash can. “I usually save that for my favorite copies of Tijuana bibles. Guess I was feeling crazy today.”

I don’t know why I say it—ninety-nine percent of the population would never get the reference—but when his brows lift, I realize he’s in the one percent who knows I’ve brought pre-1960s taboo comic strip porn into the conversation. Impressive.

While he doesn’t fully smile, the way his cheek twitches lets me know he’s fully amused. His eyes flick to my denim overalls then back to my face.

“So it’s dirty cartoons that inspire your creativity?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose.

I fight my smile. “Who doesn’t feel creative after seeing Popeye and Olive Oyl in such compromising positions?”

He laughs at this.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “And do you stare at every customer the same way you were just staring at me?”

His directness catches me off guard but feels like a game.

“Only the ones who wear such ridiculous shirts.” I ring the harmonica up and try to stay cool. “Anyone dressed like a clown in public is bound to attract attention.”

“Mission accomplished, I guess.”

I have never fought a smile so hard in my life.

“And your excuse for staring at me?”

“No excuse,” he admits easily. “It’s hard not to stare at something so beautiful.”

My heart trips but I laugh. “And you’re a smooth talker.” I hand him the harmonica in exchange for his credit card. “Do you play?”

“Depends.” He leans a denim-covered hip against the counter, looking at me like he has me. The smile I can’t seem to get rid of makes me think he just might.

“On?”

This close to him, his eyes become a kaleidoscope of golds and browns. “On if you’ll show me around town.”

I laugh—so easily—at the lack of connection between the two. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I’m here teaching summer school”—he does not look like a teacher—“and I need to know all the best places to eat and best wines to drink. I need to know everything about this place.” When I think he’s done: “And the people who live here.” Then: “Immediately.”

“What do you teach?”

“History.”

He wraps his lips around the harmonica and makes it wail, quite impressively, like a train whistle.

“You just here for the summer?”

His shrug comes with a noncommittal teeter. “Depends how much I like it.”

It’s a dangerous answer, one filled with a promise of unknowns and everything I shy away from, but the smile on my face might as well be tattooed there the way the black lines are on his arm.

My urge to touch him and the ink on his skin is almost unmanageable.

I shove my hands in the pockets of my overalls to stop myself from acting like the complete freak I suddenly long to let myself become.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I challenge.

“Of course it does.” He blows into the harmonica and makes another sound I feel in my bones. “We’re in a town of wineries. Wine and old stories always go best together.”

“Ah. You’re thirsty for history?” I quip.

His grin cracks me wide open.

“Thirsty for history.” He rolls the words around on his tongue. “I like that.” He pauses, leaning over the counter toward me until he’s close enough I inhale his spicy, woody scent—I want to bathe in it. “I’d say I’m parched.”

His words are loaded, and we both know it. He might be parched, but it isn’t for history.

I’ve spent thirty-four years attracted to men who mirror me.

Cautious and steady. There have been some good ones—some great ones even—but none of them have had lasting power.

I’ve never had a great heartbreak like some people speak of, it’s just never been right.

This nameless man in front of me doesn’t appear to be any of those things, and yet I’m completely at the mercy of his presence.

Swift as a second hand ticking on an old clock, my heart beats in a way that makes me almost think I’ve been chasing the wrong thing.