Chapter Four
Zoey
H ow a man can get sexier is beyond me, but he has. And dripping wet Magnus was scorching. Dry Magnus is better. Maybe it’s because that dimple shows a little more each time he smiles, or he listens to me.
Listens and doesn’t run.
Of course, he’d like money, so he’s not about to run, but still…
I wipe suddenly sweaty hands down the sides of my dress. The Sinclair thugs came again last night as I was about to lock the door. The same offer as before, but this time they’d left without their usual Cult-level tenacity.
I’ve left him to unpack and price and shelve the books. The pricing is easy as I sorted the boxes and marked the tops of the boxes. He should be fine with that.
Downstairs is Mrs. O’Reilly, a buxom African American woman whose husband, Mr. O’Reilly, runs a bar over on the next block.
“Zoey.”
She marches up to the counter, a powerhouse in a cap that perpetually sits over her setting hair.
“Dark chocolate with white chocolate chunks and pecans, and a slice of hibiscus lemon drizzle cake.”
“I didn’t come for that!” She puts her bag immediately in her handbag and nabs the extra cookie I set on a plate for her. “Declan is beside himself.”
Declan—or Mr. O’Reilly—is always like that, according to her. He’s the most mild mannered and even keeled man I’ve met, but she loves a touch of drama in her life so I indulge. “Oh no.” I select another slice of cake and a cookie and bag those. “To calm his nerves.”
“You’re a good girl. No, he’s worried about what this construction will do to business. It’s already down with the closures and people having to move out.” Her voice drops to a loud whisper. “Apparently, people don’t want to spend money on drinks because they’re worried about finding something affordable, you hear me?”
“If I have my way, there won’t be people moving. I’m staying.”
She pats my hand. “You don’t have to tell me. But the rest? They’re weak.” She practically quivers with outrage.
“If the worst happens, O’Reilly’s is going to be just fine. Construction crews love a drink after work.”
She sighs and devours her cookie, then eyes the rest behind the counter. “I hope you’re right. Now, if the worst happens, come work your baking witchcraft at the bar.”
“I said I’ll bake for you when I have time,” I say.
“You got a lot going on here.” She looks about.
I set the espresso machine up for two cups, and then I pack the rarely used single cup section and set that, too. “Anytime you need help, Mrs. O, you ask.”
“I just came by to let you know the trains are all screwy today, so don’t you go nowhere, you hear? You could get stuck in that devil place.”
“Manhattan?”
“Yes.”
I bite my lip to stop laughing. I don’t know what happened to her in Manhattan, but she despises it. “Oh, your LaWanda Stevens are in.”
“New?”
“At secondhand neighbor prices. As well as some of the ones you mentioned a while ago you haven’t read.”
She’s off, powering down the romance section. “Now these are what I’m talking about! Books about real women. With curves. Ooh, he’s handsome.”
The men on the covers are always handsome. And LaWanda romances are about women like her and she loves them. She told me she hates the ones about blondes built like twigs who’d break in a soft breeze, and I don’t think she was talking about the heroines.
She returns with a pile of books and I bag and ring them up. “Ten dollars.”
“Do you know,” she says, fishing out a bunch of ones, “there’s a dreamboat stacking books back down that aisle.”
It’s her low, conspiratorial voice, so I’m positive Magnus heard every word.
Her gaze is back on the cookies and I give her a cup of espresso with copious cream and five sugars—it’s definitely more sugar and cream than caffeine and another cookie. “It might storm, too.”
She says this like that’s what we’ve been talking about and Magnus comes over.
There’s a look in his dark onyx eyes that makes my stomach perform complicated flip flops as he does so, but then he smiles a little hesitantly and my dumb heart flutters because he looks slightly lost and sheepish.
“I’ve finished the books.”
“Mrs. O’Reilly, this is Magnus. Magnus, Mrs. O’Reilly. I just hired him.”
Okay, it’s more he hired himself, but semantics…
She doesn’t wait for him to offer his hand; she grabs it and shakes it hard. She’s a strong woman, but he takes it in his stride. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ooh, Declan better step up his game, girl. That’s all I’m saying.”
She finishes her coffee and then I give her another cookie and she takes her bag and swans out the door, into the gray morning.
“Mrs. O’Reilly is… interesting,” he says, amusement running warm through his voice.
“She is. And she’s sweet.”
His eyebrow raises, but he doesn’t say anything.
I hand him an espresso and take mine and add milk and sugar and then pop a cookie on a plate for him. He didn’t have one yesterday, but I’m sure that’s just because it was a job interview. Only monsters and people named Sinclair hate cookies.
Fine, I don’t know if the last one is true, but I imagine it is. He takes the coffee and has a sip. Outside, the sky growls.
“Usually today is slow, so I stock and then dust and do all kinds of things. I’ll show you the register.” I stop and lift my gaze to him which is a little too easy to do. I know I need to stop secretly ogling him because I’m his boss. But it’s hard, he’s just so hot. “Unless you know how to use one. You probably do—”
“I don’t.”
“Oh.” I frown and play with my cup. “Didn’t you do an afterschool job?”
“Not one behind a register. It’s okay, I’m a fast learner.”
“Come around here.”
He does and I can barely breathe. How did I not notice there’s almost no space here? The heat of him seeps into me and he smells as divine as he did yesterday, that citrusy whiskey scent that teases and flirts. He’s probably married. I slide my gaze down to his hands. No ring. They’re beautiful hands, strong, capable, elegant.
I tell myself to breathe and start pointing out how to use the register. We go over it about five times and then I open the screen, select test, and then gesture for him to have a go.
“You know, I saw the modern register, but I pegged this place as having an old fashioned kind.”
I laugh, our hands brushing as I guide him through this part of the register and a shower of sweet heat washes through me from the brief and fleeting contact.
“Those things are temperamental and expensive. And this is old, secondhand, and cheap.”
“Like everything here.”
The words shouldn’t hurt because I don’t think he meant them the way they sounded. But that cheap part… it hurts. My good friend Suzanne said the same thing when I set this place up based on nothing but meager savings and a hell of a lot of sweat and tears and the blood and bones of a decaying relationship.
“Well. Just have a go with it. We’re quiet now, so I’ll just let you practice.” I look around as I edge out from behind the counter, suddenly crowded. My shop isn’t much, I guess.
It could use a paint job and the signs that I painted by hand because I couldn’t afford to pay for a professional suddenly no longer look charming. They look, well, cheap. And I could clean the window. I used to have a guy, but he moved out of the area a few months ago and I never got around to finding someone else. I know Mikey could use some cash. I guess I can try and stretch things a little further, see if he wants to do the windows weekly.
There’s another crack of thunder and it’s followed by a sheet of lightning that flashes bright.
Magnus comes up behind me. His wavery reflection in the window gives him away even though he walks silently. He puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and comforting and I turn. “I’m sorry. I should have been watching and helping. Is something wrong?”
“Yeah.” He flashes the dimple briefly and I ignore the weakness in my knees. But his gaze seems to look down deep into me, like he can see my secrets. I don’t have any, but if I did, he’d see them.
“Don’t worry, any mistakes won’t mess up the books. You’re in practice mode.”
He frowns. “Not the register, Zoey. You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, I said cheap and I didn’t mean—”
“You did and it is. Truth is, I don’t have the money to make it splashy.” I wander over to the first aisle and start straightening the books, tracing the spines with a finger. “But I don’t want this flashy. This isn’t a big chain bookstore. It’s mine, and it’s little and bells and whistles won’t do anything. People come in for books.”
“And all the sugar you give away.”
“Sugar is an important food group.”
He goes to say something, but shakes his head. “You’re a pushover, Zoey. That woman could afford to buy all the cookies she scarfed, and you charged her ten bucks for fifteen books.”
“She’s a neighbor.”
“With the same name as the bar on the other corner.”
I press my lips together. “I run my business my way, Magnus. I know you worked in marketing and it’s probably all about flash and the sale and money, but I’m not. I like helping out. She likes my books and the sweets.”
“And there was Mikey yesterday.”
“He’s a kid. I give him books to feed his mind and pad out his lunch box for school by feeding his soul. I’d rather he eat some homemade baked goods than a Twinkie.”
“He probably eats both. He’s what? Fourteen? Fifteen? Do you know the kind of appetites boys that age have?”
“I’m an only child.”
“You’re lucky,” he mutters.
“You have siblings?”
Before he can answer, the doorbell dings and thunder rolls and I greet my new customer with a smile. “Come on, Magnus. If this guy buys something he can be your first sale.”
I make chit chat with the man and answer all his questions. I keep waiting for Magnus to chime in, but he doesn’t. He just watches. I’m a little surprised, but then again he doesn’t know where everything is, so I just lead the man off in search of his World War books.
Magnus mangles the sale so badly that I end up giving the guy a deep discount. And a cookie. And a slice of cake.
The day wears on and he doesn’t really improve and I keep running around like I have three jobs instead of the one.
The only thing Magnus gets is the espresso machine. It’s like he’s never stepped foot in a lowly store before in his life, and I put it all down to first day jitters. Not to mention worry about his gran.
I’m about to let him go early when the sky cracks loud with thunder and the place lights up supernova bright. And the heavens open.
People scatter on the street and soon it’s only the few brave souls dashing about on whatever important business they have because umbrellas don’t seem to be much good against this type of downpour.
“Do you want to go?” The sky grows even darker and it’s not even four p.m. I thread my hands together, feeling bad because he didn’t arrive with an umbrella. “It’s pretty bad out there, but…”
“I can stay.” He doesn’t sound bothered.
“You can call your gran. Let her know you’re on your way, or if you want to wait until it lets up, that you’ll be late.”
“Who?” He stops, stares at me. “Sorry,” he says with a laugh, “I thought you said Brad.”
“Who’s Brad?”
“I don’t know.”
I stare back and then start laughing. “Good to know that’s not her name.”
“She’s not expecting me today.”
“Oh. I thought she was living with you.”
“Just nearby.” He turns, picks up the feather duster and studies the feathers like he’s never seen one before. “I told her I’d be in tomorrow, as I didn’t know when I’d finish today.”
“Well, I’ll make her a special bag of treats, in case you decide to drop by tonight,” I say as I slip back behind the counter, feeling a little safer with something between us. Not that he’s about to try anything. It’s me. He’s just so lovely to look at that I’m afraid I might do something embarrassing, like swoon or accidentally on purpose brush against that fine, tight ass. And I don’t ever do anything like that. I’ve turned into a freak. I’m going to have to fire him. I almost start to laugh again but force myself to stop because cackling over nothing is definitely a freak move and I do actually need the help.
I open the register and peer in at the pile of little receipts. Oh lord, there’s one for two thousand dollars. I know we didn’t sell a truck of books. I’m going to need to hire someone to help me with my new employee.
Magnus is flipping the duster in his hand and he comes up and leans against the counter, leaving a shower of dust as he thumps down the duster. Thank God the treats are under cover or else I’ll have to sell them with a special, er, dusting.
We chat back and forth about nothing as the rain slams down and I’m reaching for a cookie because I forgot lunch when the bell dings. My heart plummets as a giant umbrella pokes in shaking water on the floor, followed closely by a man in a dark pinstripe suit and wet shoes.
“Oh no.”
Magnus has a strange expression on his face as he straightens up. “Trouble?”
“It’s a development heavy, trying to make me sell up.”
The man comes up to us.
And then the thug in a suit looks at Magnus and says, “Hey, boss.”