Chapter 2 #2
The inside of the shop feels smaller with Stone in it.
Not because he's doing anything. He's standing very still near the door, hands clasped in front of him like a schoolboy waiting for detention.
But he's large. The kind of large that makes the ceiling feel lower and the aisles feel narrower and my carefully arranged bookshelves feel like they're one wrong move away from total collapse.
I put the salvaged books on the countertop. Start sorting. Damaged. Salvageable. Might-be-okay-if-I-don't-look-too-close.
"Should I go?"
I glance up. He's still by the door. Still waiting.
"Did your paperwork say when you're supposed to start?"
"Today."
"Then no. You shouldn't go." I grab my phone. Open the email from the placement program. Scan the details I skimmed this morning while juggling Aunt Rene's breakfast and my own spiral of anxiety. "It says here you're supposed to help with setup. Customer service. General operations."
"I can do that," he says.
I can't help the skeptical look that crosses my face. "Can you?"
There's a pause. The kind that makes me think he's actually considering the question instead of just reflexively defending himself. That's... unexpected.
"I'm a fast learner," he finally offers, and there's something tentative in his voice. Not quite confidence. More like hope.
I look pointedly at the awning outside—at the torn fabric still fluttering in the breeze, at the crate of books that nearly became sidewalk pulp, at the visible evidence of his first five minutes on the job.
He follows my gaze. His shoulders drop half an inch.
"Okay," he says, and now there's a rueful edge to his tone that almost makes me want to smile. "I'm a moderately fast learner who will be significantly more careful around curbs going forward."
I raise an eyebrow. "And awnings."
"And awnings," he agrees solemnly, like we're negotiating a peace treaty instead of basic job expectations. "And... whatever else might be structurally vulnerable in a three-block radius."
I sigh. Pinch the bridge of my nose. The headache that's been building since this morning sharpens.
"Fine. You're hired. Technically you were already hired, but now it's official." I gesture to the espresso machine. "You know how to make coffee?"
"No."
The word comes out flat and honest, no attempt to sugarcoat it or pretend otherwise. I appreciate that, even if it does make my headache throb a little harder.
"Okay, what about shelving books?" I try instead, grasping for something, anything, he might actually be able to do without requiring a construction crew on standby.
"Yes." He nods once, decisive. "I can do that."
Small victories. I'll take them. "And talking to customers?" I press, because that's kind of essential in a business that involves, you know, customers. "Without scaring them?"
He hesitates. The pause stretches long enough that I can practically see him weighing his answer, mentally reviewing past interactions, calculating odds.
"Depends on the customer," he finally says, and there's something almost diplomatic in the way he phrases it. Like he's trying to be realistic without being discouraging.
I level him with a look. "Stone."
His jaw shifts. Those dark eyes meet mine, and I catch something in them—not quite resignation, but definitely awareness that his answer wasn't what I was hoping for. "I'll try," he says, and the earnestness in his voice is so genuine it actually makes me twist a little. "I will. I'll try."
It's not the answer I want. But it's honest. And honestly, I've had employees lie with more confidence and less follow-through.
"Okay." I grab the stack of salvageable books. Hand them to him. "Biography section. Alphabetical by author's last name. Can you handle that?"
"Yes."
He takes the books. Moves toward the shelves. Slowly. Carefully. Like he's navigating a minefield.
I gaze at him for a moment. The way he ducks slightly even though the ceiling is high enough. The way he checks each step before he takes it.
He's trying.
It's clumsy and awkward and he's already caused more property damage in ten minutes than my ex caused in two years.
But he's trying.
I turn back to the counter. Pull up the prescription reminder. The payment app. The to-do list that never gets shorter.
Behind me, I hear the soft sound of books sliding into place.
One at a time.
Alphabetical.
Careful.
The biography section is a mess.
Not Stone's fault. It was a mess before he got here. Before the awning incident. Before I decided reinventing my life at thirty-two was a reasonable plan.
I've been meaning to reorganize it for weeks.
Kept putting it off because there were always more urgent fires to put out.
Prescription pickups. Espresso machine malfunctions.
The lingering suspicion that I've made a catastrophic mistake and should crawl back to the library with my tail between my legs.
But Stone doesn't know any of that.
He just sees books that need shelving and gets to work.
I peer at him from the counter. Pretend to be cross-referencing invoices but mostly just watching.
He moves slow. Methodical. Pulls each book from the stack and examines it like he's never seen one before. Turns it over in his massive hands. Checks the spine. The cover. The author's name printed in faded gilt.
One of them is particularly old. A biography of some long-dead explorer. The pages are brittle. Yellow at the edges. The kind of book that threatens to crumble if you breathe on it wrong.
Stone holds it like it might shatter.
His fingers, scarred and thick, cradle the spine with impossible gentleness. He opens it. Just a crack. Peers at the copyright page. His brow furrows in concentration.
My heart does a complicated little flip.
I tell myself it's nothing. Just surprise at seeing someone his size handle something fragile with actual care instead of the usual orc stereotypes about brute strength and casual destruction.
But it's more than that.
It's the way his whole face changes when he reads. Softens. Like the rest of the world falls away and there's only him and the words on the page.
It's intimate in a way I wasn't expecting.
He closes the book. Slides it onto the shelf between two others. Steps back. Checks the alignment. Adjusts it half an inch to the left.
Perfect.
My phone rings on the counter.
I jump. Fumble for it. Nearly drop it twice before I manage to swipe the screen.
Unknown number. Local area code.
I answer anyway because unknown numbers at two in the afternoon are either spam or something I actually need to deal with and I can't afford to ignore either.
"Ellis Books and Brews."
"Ms. Ellis. Jamal Patterson, City Cultural Development Office." The voice is brisk. Professional. The kind that doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "Just calling to confirm your participation in the Heritage Festival next month."
My brain stalls out.
Heritage Festival.
Right.
The thing I signed up for three months ago when the shop was still theoretical and I had optimism instead of a demolished awning.
"Yes," I say, because what else can I say. "Confirmed."
"Excellent. You're scheduled for booth space Saturday and Sunday, ten to six both days. We'll need proof of cultural programming by the fifteenth. That's two weeks from today."
"Cultural programming." I repeat the words like they might make more sense the second time. They don't.
"Cross-cultural engagement activities. Demonstrations. Performances. Educational outreach." He rattles off the list like he's done this a thousand times. Probably has. "It's part of the grant requirements. You did read the grant requirements, didn't you?"
I absolutely did not read the grant requirements.
I skimmed them. At midnight. While eating cereal out of the box and questioning every life choice that led me to this exact moment.
"Of course," I lie.
"Great. Email me the details by the fifteenth. Have a good day, Ms. Ellis."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I read my phone. At the blank screen. At my own reflection distorted in the glass.
Cultural programming.
Two weeks.
I don't even have working espresso machine.
"Bad news?"
Stone's voice startles me. I look up. He's finished with the biography section. Standing a respectful distance away. Hands clasped in front of him again. That same waiting-for-detention posture.
"No," I say automatically. Then, because lying takes energy I don't have, "Maybe. I don't know yet."
He doesn't push. Just nods like that answer makes perfect sense.
I appreciate that more than I should.
"The Heritage Festival," I hear myself say. "Next month. I'm supposed to have a booth. And cultural programming. Whatever that means."
"Demonstrations. Performances. That kind of thing." He shifts his weight. The floorboards creak. "My last placement did one. They had me make borscht."
"Borscht."
"Orc recipe. Different from the human version. More root vegetables. Less beet." He pauses. Considers. "Actually, no beet at all. Just things that grow in dark places."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "How'd it go?"
"Three people liked it. Twelve people were polite. One person threw up." He says it matter-of-factly. Like those are reasonable odds. "But the grant inspector counted it as cultural exchange, so."
"So I need to find something that won't make people throw up."
"That's usually a good baseline."
This time I do smile. Small. Brief. But real.
He notices. Something shifts in his expression. Uncertainty to something warmer. His shoulders drop half an inch, relaxing just a fraction, and for a moment he looks less like he's bracing for impact and more like he's actually here, present, part of this strange little space we're sharing.
My phone chimes again.
I glance down. Text from Aunt Rene.
Pharmacy called. Refill ready. Can you pick up before five?
Of course I can. Because I don't have enough on my plate already.
I type back a quick affirmative. Shove the phone in my pants.