“My name is Amy. I heard there was a position going here.”
“You’re looking at her. Do you have any experience?” The manager finally glanced up, and the light in her eyes was glazed with dull disinterest. She grabbed another glass and turned her attention back to it.
“Yes, I worked for Major’s—it’s a bar in Ohio.”
“You’re a long way from home. What brings you to Church Heights?”
“I just needed a change, and it’s beautiful here.”
She surveyed me briefly with a look in her eye that said she didn’t like what she saw. She sighed. “Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.”
I didn’t think she would, but I reached down, unzipping my large tan bag to grab a pen. Finally, I found what I was looking for in the far corner at the bottom of my bag. But I didn’t have any paper. When I looked up to ask for some, she was now at the far end of the bar talking to a man. My view of him was obscured by her. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I did hear her sigh loudly when she turned back to face me, and the dull disinterest had morphed to something much sharper.
“You start at four tomorrow afternoon. Don’t be late,” she said brusquely.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” I smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
The manager didn’t answer; she didn’t even bother to make eye contact. She turned her back and strode through a door behind the bar, and out of sight.
My focus returned to the end of the bar, and I caught the man’s gaze. A current, like an electrical cord had just been plugged in, shot through my body.
He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. Startled, I soaked all of him in. He had thick dark-brown hair that looked like it was made to run fingers through. From underneathlong, dark lashes, brown eyes locked with mine, and his look was blistering. His jaw was carved of stone, and his mouth—oh, his mouth... soft crimson lips looked like plush silk pillows. He wore a crisp, collared white shirt filled out by his broad shoulders. He held the confidence and smug arrogance usually found in excessively good-looking men. But there was something else about him that intrigued me. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something I couldn’t tear my gaze away from.
His lips curved up. My heart fluttered.
Jesus, Amy, get a grip.
I broke eye contact. Although I was only walking, I felt like a horse bolting out of the gates for the door.
Chapter 11
The Book Keeper
The bookstore sat sprawled around a corner. The large sandstone facade rose two stories from the street. Above the glass door, discreet black writing read: The Bookkeeper. Creativity in full bloom.
I stepped inside, a ding announcing my arrival, pausing I took in my surroundings. The place was as ancient as it was amazing. Wood-paneled walls met a vaulted ceiling that converged a good sixteen feet above. In the center of the first room, the exquisitely detailed ceiling housed a large ornate-gold chandelier. In what I viewed as a crime against heritage, someone had added a cluttered assembly of dimly lit tube lights, and the chandelier’s glitter was lost in gaudy modernization. Green carpets covered the floor, probably installed to dampen the sound of footsteps on the old timber boards—another sordid crime. On the right, rows and rows of new books crowded the shelves of old wooden bookcases. Directly ahead, the biggest timber counter I’d ever seen rambled out from the side wall. A large, white-faced clock hung on the sandstone wall behind it, the hands stuck on twelve a.m or p.m. I didn’t know. Either way, it wasn’t moving.
As I moved further into the arcade building, a strong sense of calming nostalgia washed over me. The soothing, spicy scent of newly crafted pages lingered in the air. The library was the one place that, no matter which family I was bundled off to, served as a constant escape. As a young child, I could lose myself amongst the shelves and live in the pages of fantasy worlds, which were often far better than my reality.
The past bled into the present. All these years later, my sense of loneliness, of being abandoned and left, of feeling unloved—unlovable, had come back in full swing. Like a broken record stuck on repeat.
“Hello, dear, can I help you?” a man asked, peering up from behind the counter. Disheveled gray hair flared out haphazardly from his head. Before I could answer, recognition flickered across his face. He said with an odd excitement, “You’re the new girl, Amy. Welcome to Church Heights. I’m Bob.”
“Yes,” I answered mildly perplexed. “Word gets around fast.”
“Small town.” He waved it off with a gesture of his hand. “You’ll get used to it.”
I doubted it. “I take it you don’t get new people in town often?”
He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Not a lot. Mostly just folk who lived here when they were younger and come back for a few months for summer break. Let me show you around.” Bob walked with the stooped posture of someone far older than his face suggested.
“This is where the new books are. This one is row A,” he said over his shoulder and pointed to the row clearly marked A. “This one is B.” He kept walking and pointed to the next row marked C. “And C.” Surely, he wasn’t going to go through the whole alphabet, was he? “All theway to Z. Filed under author last names of course.” He stopped and fixed his icy-blue gaze on me as if checking to see whether I understood.
“Of course.” I nodded.
“Good, good. Now come this way. The older ones you can take home to read and bring back once you’re done—they’re down here.” He moved forward, and straight ahead were rows and rows of huge wooden bookcases filled with old books neatly stacked sideways. The cases were easily ten feet high and spanned the width of the room, which ran perpendicular to the first room and was about four times larger.
“Watch the steps, dear.” Bob stepped down the two steps, holding onto a golden rail for support as he went.
