But not before I saw her. Coming out of that alley behind the general store, flustered and wild-eyed. And Grayson Cole following behind her, that intense look on his face.
I know something happened. Don't know what. Not my business unless she wants to tell me.
But it's been eating at me all weekend.
Now it's Monday morning, and we both have to be here, and we've already broken the ice with her teasing. Back to work.
"Thought we could tackle more social media content," I say, pulling out my phone. "Those posts you did for the toy drive got crazy engagement. I was thinking we could do something similar for the Christmas sale coming up."
"Sure." She nods, already thinking. "What did you have in mind?"
For a second, I forget what we're talking about. Those green eyes, sharp and intelligent and still slightly wary, looking at me like she's trying to figure something out.
Then my brain catches up. "Holiday decorating? Show people how to hang lights safely, build those wooden reindeer lawn ornaments, that kind of thing?"
"That could work." She's already pulling out her own phone, scrolling through the store's Instagram. "We should do video content. Short tutorials. Maybe some before-and-after transformations."
And just like that, we're back. Not awkward coworkers dancing around an uncomfortable confession. Just two people who work well together, bouncing ideas back and forth.
This is why I hired her. Why I offered her the job in the first place. Because she's brilliant at this—sees opportunities I'd never think of, understands the marketing side of business in a way I never will.
And yeah, okay, also because I'm attracted to her. But that's not why she's good at her job.
"We could do a series," she's saying now, warming to the topic. "Different projects each day this week. Build anticipation for the weekend sale."
"I like it." I lean against the counter, watching her face light up as she talks. "What do you need from me?"
"Mostly just to be the hands." She's grinning now, some of that wariness fading. "You do the actual work, I'll film and edit. People love watching capable alphas build things."
My face heats. "Capable, huh?"
"It's basic marketing." But there's color in her cheeks too. "Play to your strengths."
"And my strengths are...?"
"The whole rugged hardware store owner thing you've got going." She waves her hand vaguely. "It works for the demographic."
I'm definitely blushing now. "Right. Demographics."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Don't let it go to your head, Brooks."
The morning passes easier after that. We film a quick tutorial on hanging outdoor lights—me on a ladder demonstrating proper technique while Bea narrates and asks questions. She makes me do it three times until she gets the perfect clip, and I'm reminded that underneath the snark and walls, she's genuinely good at what she does.
Customers come and go. Mrs. Larson wants advice on her granddaughter's Pinterest board again. I help her while Bea rings up old Mr. Patterson's monthly lumber order. We move around each other in the space easily now, a few shifts of working together creating a comfortable rhythm.
Comfortable. Professional.
Except I can't stop noticing her.
The way she tucks hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. How she drums her fingers on the counter while thinking. The little smile she gets when a customer compliments her organizational system—because of course she reorganized my entire front display in under a week and made it actually functional.
Around noon, I catch myself watching her explain router bits to a contractor with complete confidence, and the realization hits me like a hammer to the chest.
This isn't just attraction anymore.
I'm falling for her.
For the way she lights up when she solves a problem. For how she remembers every customer's name after meeting them once. For the fierce intelligence she brings to everything she does, even something as simple as managing social media for a small-town hardware store.
