Something flickers in his green eyes—understanding? Concern?
"The order says you'll have full use of the apartment in the evenings. I'll work 8 to 5, then clear out so you have your privacy." He glances around the store. "Nice place you've got here. You like books, huh?"
The question is so obvious—I own a bookstore—that I almost laugh despite my anxiety. "Yeah. I like books."
Mrs. Fletcher chooses this moment to appear from behind a bookshelf. "Beth, dear, who's your handsome friend?"
I feel a blush creep up my neck. "He's not… This is Mr. Davis. He's going to be doing some work on the apartment upstairs."
"Sam," he corrects, giving Mrs. Fletcher a polite nod. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
"Such good manners," she says with a wink in my direction that makes my blush deepen. "Well, I'd better get going. My program starts at noon." She places a mystery novel on the counter. "Just this one today, dear."
I ring her up, grateful for the distraction. When she's gone, I'm left alone with the stranger, Sam, who will apparently be invading my sanctuary for the foreseeable future.
"I need to go upstairs and see what I'm working with," he says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Is that alright with you?"
The question surprises me. He has the key and the work order. He doesn't need my permission. Yet he's asking anyway.
"I... I guess that's fine," I say, glancing at the clock. 11:48. "But I have... someone coming at noon. A meeting. It's important."
"I'll be quick, then get out of your way."
As he turns toward the stairs, I notice the way he moves. Always alert, like he's constantly aware of his surroundings. Not the casual gait of a regular contractor.
"Mr. Davis?"
He pauses, looking back at me. "Sam."
"Sam," I correct myself. "How long will these renovations take?"
He considers the question. "Depends on what I find once I start opening things up. A few weeks, probably. Maybe longer."
Weeks. Having a stranger in my space for weeks. Someone who could discover who I really am. Someone who might report back to the people trying to find me.
"Is that going to be a problem?" he asks, watching me closely.
Yes, I want to scream. Everything about this is a problem.
"No," I lie instead. "It's fine."
The bell above the door jingles again, and I jump. Agent Wilson and Agent Cruz enter, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. My eyes dart to Sam, who has gone completely still, his posture shifting subtly.
"Ms. Carter," Agent Wilson says, his gaze fixed on Sam. "Everything alright here?"
"Yes," I say quickly. "This is Sam Davis. He's a contractor. Going to be doing some work on the apartment upstairs."
Agent Cruz steps forward, hand moving slightly toward where I know he keeps his weapon. "We weren't informed of any contractors."
Sam doesn't flinch under their scrutiny. "Just got the call this morning. Have the work order right here." He nods toward the paper I'm still holding.
Agent Wilson takes it from me, reviews it, then hands it back with obvious reluctance. "We'll need to see some identification, Mr. Davis."
Sam reaches for his wallet slowly, maintaining eye contact with Wilson as he does. He hands over his driver's license.
Wilson examines it, then returns it with a curt nod. "We'll need to speak with Ms. Carter privately."
"No problem," Sam says, backing toward the stairs. "I'll just take some measurements upstairs and be on my way. Won't take long."
