He smiled, the image forming easily in his mind. Felicity in the middle of her shop, hands moving as she talked, those blue eyes bright with the love of a subject she was so passionate about.
“Sounds like you did everything right.”
“I thought I was doing enough to keep the store afloat despite the low traffic. I made window displays twice a month. Ran social media. I partnered with a local author and the school. I tried to bring in tourists with themed weekends. But nothingbrought in enough business.” She shrugged as if she’d gone through this over and over in her head but the answer all pointed to the same place—the CLOSED sign on her door.
“Now the shop’s a wreck.” She issued a little watery laugh and nodded toward the tray. “Finish that bacon, Marine. Then we can get to the part where you hold me accountable for sorting through those boxes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, unable to help the way the corner of his mouth lifted. He plucked up the bacon strip and bit into it.
Her cheeks flushed, and her expression turned from soft to shy in a way that did ridiculous things to his insides.
As he polished off the bacon, she watched him with those big eyes. And all he could think about was how damn much he wanted to lean in and taste her lips…kiss her slow and thorough…until that sweet rasp of hers turned into the whisper of his name.
* * * * *
Even after Felicity finished the last bite, the warm fullness in her stomach didn’t lessen the reality waiting for her. The boxes symbolized something sad, lined up like little tombstones, something shehadto face.
Really, she should be thrilled to open them. With Gabe sitting beside her, avoiding them suddenly felt childish.
She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves, aware of how closely Gabe watched her. He perched on the edge of the cushion as if he was about to jump up and save her from the cardboard if it posed a threat.
Or maybe save her from herself.
Gabe carried strength the way other men carried wallets—naturally, without thinking about it. The way he stood, the way he watched the room, even the relaxed shift of his shoulders…Everything about him said protector, even if she didn’t need protecting from anything except her own doubts.
And he wasridiculouslyattractive.
She hadn’t dated in a long time. Her interest in people sparked rarely, barely. But here she was, sitting beside a man who was all quiet heat and kindness, pretending she wasn’t aware of him down to her bones.
It was terrible timing. Her life was too unstable, too uncertain, for her to even think about wanting someone.
But wanting him was the exact thing she was trying—and failing—not to admit.
She pushed to her feet. “I guess it’s time for me to stop procrastinating.”
He stood too and reached into his pocket, producing a small knife. He held it out to her, and she clasped her fingers around it, even more aware the metal was warm from being carried next to his body.
“You know how to open it?”
She nodded, turning the knife over in her hand. The metal was scratched with use, a tool a man like Gabe slipped into his pocket without thinking.
He stayed close—not crowding. But she felt him there. And she caught his scent too, clean and woodsy. Not the pine she first thought—but like cedar from an old-fashioned hope chest. Her heart leaped, and not from the anticipation of opening the boxes of books.
Gathering her wits, she slipped to her knees in front of the nearest one and slit the packing tape with the blade. The sound crackled in the quiet library.
“Even though I’m not in my own bookstore when I open these, at least I’m doing it in a library.”
He made a muted sound of agreement.
She lifted the flaps and stared down at stacks of books wrapped in brown archival paper and nestled in old packing straw. The books she remembered ordering from the estate auction months ago.
Her breath loosened in her chest as she unwrapped the first two—an anthology of women’s travel writing from the 1800s and a beautifully bound botanical guide with hand-tinted plates. She stroked a fingertip over the embossed covers.
The second box held more surprises. She opened it slowly, revealing a stack of volumes she’d forgotten she bid on. The leather bindings gleamed in the sun despite their age.
“Greek tragedies in translation!” She looked to Gabe, feeling like a child on Christmas day. “And a three-volume set of early American poetry.”
“These look like they’re worth a lot. If you were to sell them, would it keep your shop afloat until the exit opens?”
