5. Lina
Lina
"A little help here, please?”
I look up from my ledger, my jaw dropping as I see Maya.
She is wedged in the front double doors of The Mug & Page, backward, dragging a monstrous, towering piece of furniture behind her.
It is an antique Victorian chaise lounge made of heavy, dark walnut and covered in thick, slightly faded emerald velvet upholstery that looks like it belongs in a high-end Gothic mansion.
"Maya," I say slowly, stepping around the counter. "What is that?"
"It’s a statement piece, Lina," she pants, giving a massive yank that sends the chaise’s wooden feet scraping loudly across my threshold.
"I found it at an estate sale in Portland. The guy who died was ninety-six and clearly had impeccable taste. It’s boho-chic.
It’s romantic. It’s the centerpiece your lending library has been crying out for. "
"It’s a dust magnet," I say, crossing my arms as I survey the velvet monster now blocking my entrance. "And it smells faintly of mothballs and old-lady lavender."
"It smells like history," she counters, leaning her weight against the carved wooden backrest and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
She points her finger at me. "Your current reading nook has two corduroy armchairs that look like they survived a fraternity house fire. They are a crime against the eyes."
"My mother bought those armchairs," I say, my voice dropping before I can stop it. I reach out, my fingers tracing the worn, soft fabric of one of the brown corduroy chairs by the wood-burning stove. "The springs are still good. They're comfortable." I say.
Maya’s expression softens instantly, her dramatic, sassy attitude melting into that quiet, careful sympathy that always makes my stomach do a nervous little twitch.
"I know, sweetie. I know she did. But you can keep one of them. We’ll just swap the other for this.
It’ll make the whole back corner feel like a movie set. Tourists will flock to it."
"I don't want tourists flocking to my corner," I mutter, turning back to the counter to escape her gaze.
I don't need pity. I just want things to stay exactly as my mother left them.
Every piece of mismatched furniture she thrifted, every nail she drove into these brick walls, is an anchor keeping me in place.
If I let Maya drag them out, who knows what else will come loose?
"Just let me leave it here for a week," Maya pleads, sliding behind the counter to grab a clean rag. "If you still hate it by next Friday, I’ll help you drag it to the curb. Deal?"
"If it starts to mold, it's gone immediately," I say.
"Deal." She beams, popping a chocolate chip cookie from the display jar into her mouth before I can slap her hand away.
"Oh, by the way, your hot neighbor was checking out the alley again this morning.
I saw him from my boutique window. He was just...
standing there in the fog, like a giant, brooding statue. "
My spine goes completely rigid at her words. My body registers his name before my brain can process it, a sudden, sharp prickle of heat on the back of my neck, my skin tightening under my green sweater.
John.
It’s been three weeks since he moved in next door, and he has turned my life into a quiet siege.
He is everywhere. If I go out to throw out the trash at nine o'clock at night, he is leaning against the brick wall of the alley, his eyes unreadable.
If I walk to the fish market, he is three steps behind me.
And every morning at exactly eight-fifteen, the bell above my door chimes.
Clink.
Speak of the devil.
The bell rings, and the chilly, fog-laden air of the harbor rolls into the shop, bringing the scent of wet salt, pine, and him.
John steps through the door. He’s wearing a dark gray wool sweater today, the fabric stretched tight across the broad, absurd line of his shoulders and chest. He looks clean, severe, and entirely too large for my cozy little shop.
His dark hair is slightly damp from the mist, clinging to his temples.
"Morning," he says.
His voice is the same gravelly, low purr that made me shiver on the wet sidewalk three weeks ago. He walks up to the counter, his eyes immediately sliding past me to survey the room with that intense spatial awareness of his.
"Morning, John," I say, keeping my tone flat. I grab a paper cup. "The usual?"
"Black," he says. "No sugar."
"Right. The boring option." I turn my back to him and lift the heavy chrome handle of the espresso machine. "You know, we do have a ginger-molasses latte today. It actually has a personality."
"I don't like sweet things," he says.
"Clearly," I mutter under my breath.
I feel his gaze on me. It’s a physical weight, tracing the movement of my hands, the slope of my shoulders, and the messy knot of hair pinned atop my head. It makes my fingers clumsy. I grab the metal pitcher, my hand slipping, and it clatters against the metal grate with a loud, ringing bang.
Damn it. Stop letting him rattle you.
"You're tense," he notes.
"I'm not tense," I say, spinning around and sliding his steaming black coffee across the polished wood. "I'm busy. There's a difference."
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crisp five-dollar bill, and places it neatly on the counter.
His fingers are long, his knuckles slightly scarred, his nails clean.
I look at his hands and find myself remembering the iron-hard, burning grip he had on my arm in the rain.
My stomach does a slow, traitorous roll.
"Keep the change," he says.
"I don't want your charity, neighbor." I slide a dollar and fifty cents back toward him. "It's three-fifty. Take your money."
He doesn't touch the coins. He just stares at me, his dark gaze holding mine until my breath hitches in my throat. He has this way of looking at me that feels completely predatory, like he’s calculating exactly how many seconds it would take to corner me.
It’s infuriating. And yet, there is no shouting, no arrogance in his posture now, just a quiet, freezing restraint that disarms me more than any charm ever could.
"You are very stubborn," he murmurs.
"I've been told it's my best quality," I say, leaning my hands on the counter to keep them steady. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do. That wobbly shelf in aisle three isn't going to fix itself."
He looks past my shoulder toward the back of the shop, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spots the crooked bookcase. "The bracket is loose."
"I know the bracket is loose," I say. "I'm going to fix it."
"With a beer coaster?"
A small, high-pitched laugh escapes Maya from the history section. I glare in her direction, but she pretends to be deeply interested in a book she’s holding upside down.
"It's temporary," I bite out, turning back to him. "I have a hammer in the back."
"A hammer will split that wood," John says, his voice flat. He picks up his coffee cup, takes a slow, unhurried sip, and looks back at me. "It is old oak. It needs a drill and a three-quarter-inch wood screw. Otherwise, the grain will tear."
"Thank you, Bob Vila," I say, crossing my arms. "But I don't have a drill. I have a hammer and a dream. Now go drink your coffee."
He doesn't say anything else. He just takes his cup, walks over to the newly dragged-in emerald velvet chaise lounge, and sits down. He pulls a sleek black tablet from his pocket, leaning his head back as he starts to read.
I watch him for a second, my heart doing that annoying, erratic skip again.
He fits into the lavish velvet chair like a king on a temporary throne, his long legs stretching out across the floor, his broad chest rising and falling slowly.
He doesn't look like he belongs in a small-town library, and yet, the sheer quietness of him makes it impossible to look away.
"Oh, my god," Maya whispers, sliding up beside me. She nudges my hip with hers. "The sexual tension in here is so thick I'm going to need a machete to get to the register."
"There's no sexual tension," I whisper back, my cheeks burning. "He's just an annoying, condescending jerk who thinks he knows everything about wood grain."
"Lina, he was literally looking at your mouth like he wanted to eat it for breakfast," she giggles. "And you were blushing like a Victorian maiden who just saw a man's ankle."
What? No, I wasn’t!
"I am irritated. There is a huge difference."
"Whatever you say, bookworm," she hums, grabbing her purse. "I'm going to open the boutique. If you get buried under the romance novels, yell loudly. I'll tell the hot neighbor to rescue you."
"Goodbye, Maya."
Once she leaves, the shop settles into a quiet, heavy lull.
A few regulars come and go, but John doesn't move.
He sits on the green chaise, slowly sipping his coffee, his dark eyes occasionally shifting from his screen to watch me as I move around the room.
It should feel creepy. It should make me want to call the police.
But for some reason, the weight of his gaze feels...
steady. Like an anchor holding me down in the middle of a drafty room.
At ten o'clock, I finally decide to tackle the crooked bookcase.
I grab my small metal toolbox from the back room, crouch down by the bottom shelf, and yank the Miller Lite coaster out from under the wood. Instantly, the heavy oak shelf groans, tilting sharply to the left. The top row of paperbacks begins to slide.
"Shoot," I mutter, bracing my shoulder against the side of the case to keep it upright. I reach for my hammer in the toolbox, but my angle is terrible. I'm wedged between the wall and the shelf, my knees scraping the floorboards. "Come on..."
Suddenly, a shadow falls over me.