Chapter Two
Zoey
R elief. That’s relief I feel that someone’s actually asking about the job.
They haven’t in a while. And I’m sure if there wasn’t pressure from the evil empire, aka EMS Group, the billion-dollar development company that are bullies in suits, I’d have found someone by now.
Yes, that rush of blood that washes through me is that, and nothing to do with the drop dead gorgeous man standing there.
He’s tall and lean, with dark hair and onyx eyes, and beneath the T-shirt is a killer body. I know that because he’s soaked; the shirt sticking to him, his wet hoodie draped over one strong arm. The worn but clean jeans and boots on his feet compliment the look. I almost want to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming.
It if were me, I’d look like some kind of bedraggled subway rat. This man? Oooh, boy, he’s like some pin up supermodel god from the ocean.
As the water drips down a thick strand of black hair and trails his face, the sheen of the rain brings focus to those high cheekbones, a freshness to his beautiful, sensuous mouth. And those eyelashes. I need a fan. Possibly smelling salts. Therapy for my pheromones and punch drunk hormones.
Someone print a label and slap illegal on this man.
Of course, there’s also that possibility I’m dreaming. I might be. Last night I barely slept with worry and the latest onslaught from the Sinclair corporation. The name is all over the place and in the fine print of the contracts given to other businesses who’ve been priced out or sold out.
Not me. Those bullies can scrape my dead body from this spot. And if they do, I’m going to come back and haunt them.
The man—Magnus he said his name was—isn’t the usual for the area. He’s a little too well dressed. Even soaked to the bone, I can see that. He’s white, and looks like he should be in one of the gentrified areas, maybe Williamsburg or Park Slope. He’s not hood or working class. I’m not judging… okay, I’m totally judging, but I grew up here, and he doesn’t have the look.
Then again, the man hasn’t got an umbrella and he’s looking for a job in a rundown barely above water secondhand bookstore, so what do I know?
But he’s not the usual fare for this place. At all.
A few blocks east and it’s hipster enclave Bushwick, but here? It’s one of the small hole in the wall places where people work to make ends meet. There are a few gangs and projects and warehouses around. It’s no frills, this place, and bodegas dot the landscape, not the fancy ass twenty-four-hour fresh juice and kale delis. The ones here sell lotto tickets, cigarettes, cans of 40s malt liquor, baseline groceries in cans, and Wise brand salted snacks.
In short, this Magnus doesn’t look like someone who needs a job in a secondhand bookshop in Brooklyn.
Then again, never judge a sexy book by its sexy cover, and this man is one sexy cover of a book. I swallow. I’m off track again. I plaster on a smile. “Do you want a towel?”
“Just a job.” His face creases with concern and my heart clenches. “Unless it’s already gone.”
“The job? My job?”
“Yeah, you know, the sign in the window? Thought I’d apply.” He smiles at me and there’s a hint of a dimple in his left cheek that’s utterly swoon worthy.
I suck in a lungful of the coffee and sugar laced air with the hint of leather and spice that always seems to come from old books. I decide to check, just to make sure. “The sign’s for here. This place. You’re looking for a job? Here?”
I sound like a complete idiot.
He raises a brow and looks around. I just opened and no one is here yet. It’s a bookstore. People don’t normally come in for books until later. Or at all. Which is why I’ve got the baked goods and coffee. People need those.
“This is a small secondhand bookstore,” I say, just to make sure. “Maybe you got off the wrong stop on the L.”
“Nope. I live a few blocks away. I walked.”
It makes sense. He’s come in the wrong direction. He must be a hipster.
But then he names a street that’s definitely not in the hipsterverse.
“Is the job still available? I saw the sign the other day, and it’s still here, so I was hoping to apply.” He looks about. “I don’t see anyone else, unless there’s a horde of invisible people lining up.”
I laugh, I can’t help it, and I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms against my jeans. He can’t work here. I’ll get arrested for unsolicited ogling or something. “I’m sorry, you just don’t look like someone who usually goes looking for a job.” That’s a slight exaggeration, as when someone does venture in, there are all kinds. Not that anyone’s been in for a while. Or when they have, actually returned.
I scrub a hand over my mess of frizzy hair. “I’m sorry, it’s early and I was up late baking. I’m being a bad host.” Now he’s looking at me like I’m from outer space. “Would you like some coffee or a cookie?”
He frowns and for a moment there’s a hardness to him, but it must be the early morning light coming in through the store front window. “Is that normal for a job interview?”
Is it? “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve had that sign up forever.”
His face falls and he shifts his feet on floor. “So you’re not looking to hire?”
“Yes. I mean…I can’t pay much—”
“Neighborhood prices rising? It’s why I moved out here. Can’t afford Manhattan. Not since…” He looks away, sliding his hands in his pockets, which brings my attention to those narrow hips and— I drag my gaze firmly up. “Not since I lost my job a few months ago.”
A rush of sympathy runs over me and I usher him over to the counter. I hop behind it. Though he never answered, I put a chocolate chip cookie on a small plate and thrust it at him, and then I set the espresso maker for two cups, not one. There’s milk and sugar already out. “Did you work in a store?”
“Marketing, actually, but I was ready to move on, and…” He casts an eye over the crooked aisles of books that spread out from the center of the store. “You don’t need my life story.”
I grab my cookie slash breakfast from the desk where it’s been sitting as I’ve set up for the morning. The subway isn’t far from here, only half a block, and I usually get people coming in for their morning commute.
“Not to sound desperate,” he says, and his voice is low and soft and beguiling as he toys with the cookie on the plate I shoved at him, “but any money will be helpful.”
“It’s part time. I’m trying to stay afloat.”
“Rent,” he nods wisely.
“No, I own the building. It’s been in my family for a long time, but utilities and taxes are a bitch, and with the development company wanting to buy all and sundry and turn this into a store-bought cookie block, it’s getting harder.”
I blink, and take a bite of my cookie to stop myself chasing him off.
“I’ll take anything. It’ll really help.”
Truth is, I can’t exactly afford it, but running this place by myself seven days a week is something I also can’t afford. I need time to bake. I need time to scour for new stock. I need to set traps for the goons the billionaire uses to try and chase me from my home and business.
The aroma of roasted coffee fills the air and I place a cup on the counter in front of him and load mine with lots of sugar. Sweet and strong, and a splash of milk. I lean on the counter and look up at him.
Magnus doesn’t put anything into his, just sets down the cookie and picks up the cup and takes a sip. “Thanks. There’s a lot of closed businesses here.”
“I know. EMS—that’s part of the vile Sinclair billionaire real estate family to you and me—is hell bent on buying the whole place up and turning it into something boring.”
He shrugs. “You could make a pretty penny.”
“There’s more to the world than raking in money.” I finish my espresso and take a violent bite of my cookie. “And this part of Bushwick has character.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he says. His soft smile takes the potential edge from his words.
I lean against the counter and look up at the ornate ceiling. Each floor has the same intricate ceiling, back from when detail mattered and beauty ruled over the mighty dollar. “This place’s part hasn’t been sullied by gentrification’s filthy hand.” Breathing out, I tell myself to get a grip. “I’m into mixing it up, that’s part of Brooklyn—the changing neighborhoods. But pricing the poorer people, the working class out creates problems and… I’m about to launch into a speech.” I grin. “But yes, there’s a job.”
“So this development company hasn’t tried to get you to sell?”
“Yes.” I take another vicious bite of the cookie. “They have.”
“So the job’s only short term.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I refuse. This is my place, and I’ve poured my entire life into it. I love the neighborhood and the books and I’m not selling. No goon is going to stop me.” I lean onto the counter a little further, as a small drop of water clings to that lock of hair on his forehead. “I’ll tell you this, though, if I don’t sell, then the whole thing’s going to fall apart.”
“I like your passion…?”
Heat floods me. “Zoey,” I say, holding out a hand, happy not to talk about the mess I’m in. “Zoey Smith, of the unknown Brooklyn Smith family.”
“Magnus Simpson,” he murmurs. “Nice to meet you, Zoey Smith of the Brooklyn Smiths.”
And his big, strong hand closes about mine.
For a moment I can’t think.
It’s a buzz of sweet electricity, this touch and it jolts me down to my toes. “Nice to meet you, Magnus. As I said, there’s a job, and it’s not for a week or two until I sell. I’m not selling. And if I don’t, others will back out. So.”
I smile brightly because damn, his touch fills me with a glow that feeds my blood.
“I need someone to help me out. Making it work with just me is hard. I can do it, but I’d really appreciate the help. It’s a regular old job. No brain surgery required.
“Ring up sales, make sure the coffee and baked goods are stocked, keep an eye on the upstairs. Help customers out. Most people know what they want. Some come in mainly to meander, like Tuesday Harry. He occasionally buys some books, but just prefers to mostly haunt the aisles, and I always give him a cookie or a muffin or a slice of cake and a coffee. His wife died last year and coming here gives him something to do. I don’t know where he’ll be going now, once his building’s sale is complete. And—”
Oh, God. I’m writing him tomes of things he doesn’t need. I glance down as I try to get what’s left of my brain together. Double oh, God. I’m still shaking his hand. I’m clinging to it like a lifeline. And I don’t want to let go.
I do. I’m not that crazy.
I catch a whiff of dark citrus laden with the subtle midnight scents of whiskey. Sweet and erotic and rich.
With a breath, I let go of his hand and take a step back.
But the man doesn’t run. He doesn’t even cast a furtive glance to the door. He’s still wet and it’s still pounding down rain out there, but he just smiles, looking about thoughtfully as he nods to himself. Then his onyx gaze rests on me and another jolt of warm electricity rushes through my bones, and my stomach dances the Charleston a moment.
“Maybe we could introduce your Harry to my gran,” he says, bending his head down a little to me, his voice low. “When she’s better.”
My heart squeezes and I wonder if his gran is why a man like him is looking for a part-time job. Maybe he looks after her? I don’t realize I’ve said that aloud until he laughs.
“I’m helping her out. She’s a wonderful woman. Gave up everything for me to get me ahead in life, give me a chance. So I want to give back in her time of need.”
“Is… is she sick?”
Magnus is quiet for a while and I’ve a horrible feeling I overstepped, but then he offers a small smile that breaks my heart.
“She’s old. She had a fall and she’s a stubborn lady who doesn’t want to be a burden. She isn’t at all, but that’s my gran. The greatest lady you could meet. So yeah, a job, any job that lets me spend time with her and help her out will help me.”
“I understand.” I look up at him. “I think you might be a good man, Magnus.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do. You’re a good person. I can tell.” I nod sagely. Damn, this man is tall. I go to say more when the bell on my front door rings and a teen with baggy jeans and a ball cap with a flat bill comes in.
He pulls off the wet oversize hoodie he has on and does an exaggerated air punch like he’s some kind of MMA fighter, his little signature move. The kid loves mixed martial arts.
“Yo, Mama S, how you doin’?”
The kid has attitude, but he’s sweet. “Hi Mikey.”
He stops and slides a long, suspicious look at Magnus. “You want me to take care of this?”
“He’s interviewing for the job,” I say.
He’s about a foot shorter than Magnus, but Mikey puffs up and lays on the machismo. “Yo, dude, you mess wit’ her, you mess with my peeps, you hear me?”
I groan but Magnus nods, his face unsmiling, although I can see the glimmer of humor in his eyes. Mikey’s about fifteen and I’ve known him since he was little. He’s smart though, and I’m getting him into books, helping him find what he likes.
I pop two cookies in a bag and twist it shut and then slide it across the counter.
Mikey glances about, head bobbing, and like he’s doing some kind of drug deal, then snakes the bag off the counter and into the pack on his back. He gives Magnus another suspicious look and sidles up to me.
“Zoey, I’m liking that book you gave me.”
“I have another one, if you’re interested.” I say this like it’s no big deal. “When you’re done with the current one.”
His face lights up, and then he shrugs with exaggerated nonchalance. “Yeah, maybe. See ya around.”
He slouches out of the store and I start heading back behind the counter to put the rest of the cookies on display when Magnus speaks.
“That isn’t good business.”
“What isn’t?”
“Giving shit away.” He pauses, “to punks.”
“Mikey’s a good kid.”
Magnus looks like he wants to say something, but instead he shrugs. “Not my place. It’s just you said things were hard. If I do get the job, I’d like to know the rules.”
“He’s reading and a cookie here and there doesn’t break the bank.”
“Why do I suspect you give them away more than you let on?”
“I bake them. Anyway, my store,” I say, “my rules.”
“So it is.” He sighs. “Did I ruin my chances?”
My heart lurches. “No, not at all.”
“Great. When can I start?”
I blink rapidly, trying to get my brain into gear. “Tomorrow? How is tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, smiling at me, wooing me with that hint of a dimple. “Is perfect. I’ll see you then.”
And it’s not until he’s out the door that I realize a few things.
One, I never told him how many hours I’d need him.
Two, I never told him how much I’m able to pay an hour.
Three, I don’t have any employee details.
Four, he never gave me a resume.
I slump down against the counter. Chances are, he was nothing more than the figment of a lonely imagination. Not that I’m lonely, but it’s been a while, so my imagination is definitely lonely. And if he is real, he probably won’t be back.
Still, I can’t worry about that until tomorrow. Because I’ve a whole day to face, and, as the bell dings behind me, that includes a pile of bills and warding off the vile evil Sinclair empire.
I can’t wait.