“Huh?”
Clearly missing my attempt at humor, I wave her off. “Nevermind. Have a good night, Grace.”
She gives me a puzzled look, still unable to grasp the joke about voices in her head, and heads out the front door with a wave to Pen.
The store has been quiet, but given the weather outside, I’m not surprised. No one wants to be out in the freezing cold rain. I look over at Pen again, unable to contain the flurry of anticipation simmering in my gut at being alone with her to close tonight.
“Do you need any help?”
Penelope shifts the display table further into the corner, then steps back, arms crossed and her head tilted slightly. She’s so engrossed in whatever vision she’s having for this display, she clearly didn’t hear me. Abandoning my post at the register, I walk over and stop just behind her.
Her dark-blonde hair is wavy today; I’m overcome with an inexplicable urge to reach out and run my hand through her tresses. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and repeat, “Do you need any help?”
Pen jumps, her hand clutching her chest as she whirls around to face me. “Were you trying to give me a heart attack?!”
“That’s the second time I asked,” I point out, unable to resist smirking at her. “You’re entranced by this… whatever display you stormed in here excited about.”
She puts her hands on her hips. Today she’s sporting her self-proclaimed “comfy, casual, cool” look: a hoodie, leggings, and boots. It’s a look that I both love and hate– love because she looks so comfortable in her own skin, but hate because it hides her incredible curves.
“The display is supposed to be themed ‘Love Is In Bloom.’” Pen returns her contemplative gaze to the table.
“So once again, I must ask… do you need any help?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She sits down on the nearby couch with a huff. “This is going to sound stupid, but I had an amazingdream about this display. It was so perfect and clear in my subconscious. I was so excited to get here and get started on it but now…” Pen trails off, gesturing vaguely towards the clearly unfinished display and putting her face in her hands.
Resisting the urge to sit down next to her and wrap her in my arms (because I am absolutely, definitely not that kind of guy), I stand stiffly with my hands still in my pockets. “Well, you don’t sound stupid.”As if she ever could.“But, uh, I think you’re overthinking this, Pea.”
Pen looks up at me with a dazed expression. “I don’t think you get it. Gloria hasn’t said anything directly to me, but I run the numbers too.” She bites her lip before admitting, “We aren’t doing great. Financially, I mean.”
Damn. I sort of had the feeling, given that a romance bookstore is a niche concept in and of itself. Is that why Aunt Gloria mentioned me taking over the store? Why would she want to give me something financially wrecked? As if I’m not mentally and emotionally wrecked enough on my own.
“You really care about this place, huh?” It’s something to say, but it’s still an obvious-as-hell statement.
“Yeah, I do. I know I don’t own the place, but… this is like my home.” Her voice wavers and I worry for a moment that she’s about to cry. It’s not that emotions make me uncomfortable, but when Pen is upset like this, I’ll do anything to snap her out of this mood.
“So you wanted to make a display for the corner window?” Pen nods, her eyes glassy. It’s a brilliant idea— a corner window display will target people walking down busy Main Street, as well as the slightly less busy 3rd Street. It might actually be the busiest intersection in all of Prairie Ridge, if we’re talking foot traffic. Taking my hands out of my pockets, I clap them together, making Pen jump. “Then let’s make the best damn display ever.”
“Really?” Pen sniffs, though she hasn’t allowed any tears to fall. “You’ll help me with this?”
“I know I can be a sarcastic, cranky asshole most of the time.” Pen rolls her eyes but a hint of a smile crosses her face. “But if it matters that much to you, Pea, then it matters to me,” I say, holding out my hand to her.
She eyes my hand for a moment before reaching for it, allowing me to help her up from the couch. For a moment, we stand close to each other, toe to toe, far closer than casual co-workers who happen to be friends.
Pen licks her lips. “I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but where should we begin?”
Narrowing my brows in confusion, I ask, “I thought you had a dream? Some concept of a plan?”
She giggles– the most adorable fucking sound, not that I’d ever admit it out loud. “I did. I do. Until I got here and realized it’s harder to make shit happen in reality than it is in my dreams.”
We’re still standing far too close; my hands itch to touch her, to hold her. So, naturally, I take a big step back. “Let’s start with a sketch of your dream, hm? And then we can take the creative journey to reality together.”
And for the next few hours, Pen and I sketch out the display, evaluate the craft supplies she brought, as well as random things hidden in cabinets in the break room we can repurpose, and pick out our favorite books to stack on the table.
The hours fly by as we lose track of time, completely absorbed in our conversation and creating the perfect display. Pen's vision comes to life before my eyes: a pale-blue tablecloth with papier-mâché "flowers" scattered across it, and a large puffy cloud hanging above, with iridescent "raindrops" dangling from it. It’s impossible not to be in awe of her creativity and attention to detail.
“Can you lock up the drawer?” Pen asks, giving the display a hard look.
“Sure. Then are we out of here?”
