“Every so often, one of those posers has teeth,” says Strike.
“Good thing we know how to pull teeth,” I say. Strike laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “To the hunt,” I add, raising my glass.
But when our eyes lock, the air around us goes dead quiet, crackling with the sense that we’re already in the thick of it.
Twenty-Two
Josie
“Do you think I’m a winter?” The strange man has been in the shop for an hour, silently trying on clothes, sniffing candles, reading the humor books, and not buying anything. We close in twenty minutes. Honor’s gone home—I shooed her off to enjoy a hot night with Strike, assuming I could ring up the purchase of this lightweight red scarf, which the man tried on and hasn’t taken off since he got here.
“A winter?” I repeat, trying to keep my cool. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“On the color wheel,” he explains, like it’s the most obvious thing ever. He twines the scarf around his neck tighter, holds it up next to his face, and squints into the mirror on the wall behind my head.
“Right, the color wheel.” I try not to roll my eyes. He’s not very tall, so we’re basically eye to eye. I’d bet money he’s a Taurus—obsessed with his material stuff, and ruled by Venus, because he’s clearly all about appearances. One of those older guys who’s trying way too hard—and spending far too much money—to look young, but instead it has made him look bizarre. His skin is so pale it’s practically see-through.
“The scarf suits you,” I say, and tilt my body toward the register, hoping it will nudge him in that direction. It doesn’t.
“I’m not so sure.”
Okay, time to speed this up. I need to head to SynthoTech after work to, well, work. The digital art team wants to sketch me into my avatar version. As much as Honor would be thrilled if we sell that scarf, which customers love to touch but no one wants to buy, I can’t stay here late.
“Sir, not to be rude, but are you planning to make a purchase, or are we just going to chat about your seasonal identity crisis all night?” I throw in a smile to soften it, hoping that I didn’t just cost Honor a potential repeat customer.
I’m relieved when he bursts out laughing.
“Fair enough. I’ll wrap it up, so to speak,” he says. His accent reminds me of those 1950s actors trying to sound New England fancy.
“No worries,” I reply, feeling a twinge of guilt. It’s not his fault I have somewhere else to be. Normally, I’d let a customer wander around as long as they wanted. But now that Bryan is in the rearview mirror, I can admit how much I used to stall before going home. I’d let customers stay well past closing or hang around doing inventory that nobody asked me to do. I even alphabetized the vibrator shelf once. Never thinking that the issue was my relationship.
Amazing how we only notice what we want to notice.
Or maybe what we’re ready to notice.
“Let me collect my items,” the man says as he flashes me a smile. Whoa, his dimples look so weird, like they were stamped by a machine into each side of his cheeks. He unwinds the scarf from his neck and drops it next to the register. It leaves behind a puff of powerful cologne—definitely a Taurus, going wayyy toostrong on the smell—and my mind drifts to the other night, remembering how the subtlety of Axe’s scent lingered on my dress after our date—a fresh and woody blend with notes of ambergris and lemon verbena. It’s a fragrance I now imagine must be what a Scottish forest smells like.No, Josie Greene, you will not think about Axe or that kiss or how, if he hadn’t broken it off, you might have humiliated yourself by inviting him inside and ruined everything.
Clearly, my taste in men is a hot mess. Or, as Nonna would say, my picker is broken. Between my VIP status at MS Hospital and my mother’s helicopter parenting, I was embarrassingly late to the whole romance and sex scene. Bryan’s been the only guy I’ve ever known in that way, and honestly, sex with Bryan felt a lot like the way he played ice hockey—he was fast, clumsy, and often left me feeling like I should give him a penalty for rough play.
Sometimes I wonder if I even know what sex is supposed to be. When I was stuck in the hospital as a teen, I devoured series likeHighland HeartthrobsandNights at Castle Glenn, losing myself in tales of hot heroes and sassy heroines. It all felt so thrilling on the page—stolen glances, forbidden kisses, fireworks. Now I can’t help but think those romance novels might’ve set my expectations way too high and filled my head with these grand ideas of love that real life just can’t live up to.
Luckily, there’s a whole shelf of products here—conveniently alphabetized—that can satisfy me better than any man could. Sure, my kiss with Axe was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It wasn’t so much a kiss as it was…a revelation.Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!I’m over-romanticizing a singular moment.
Now that my engagement is off, I’m clearly desperate for my life to get some spark. To create drama where there is none. Maybe a childhood spent in constant danger has made me addicted to terrible thrills.
The customer roves around the store, picking up random items and dropping them by the register for me to ring up. A few candles, a wicker picnic basket, our best-selling heated massage oil, silky eye masks, and drawer sachets. The way he’s grabbing stuff reminds me of the first time Strike came into Grace & Honor and cleared the whole place out. We sold more in that single day than we had in the previous two years. After he left, Honor and I were so excited we blasted “Happy” and jitterbugged all around the empty shelves and racks.
This dude is no Strike. He’s not going to buy everything. Still, it looks like a big enough sale that I’ll definitely call Honor after he leaves. These days, money is way less tight for Honor and the store. She’s killing it not only by working part-time at Strike’s company, DME, but also by selling her own art. She’s been getting commissions from big collectors, many of them outside Pennsylvania. But Honor never takes success for granted. She’ll be thrilled to hear about Mr. Dimples McSpendy.
“One of your creamers is chipped,” he says. “Should I bring it over?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just comes over and sets the little ceramic pitcher on the counter with a deliberate clink. As I pick it up to inspect the damage, my finger catches on the jagged edge.
“Ouch!” I watch as a dark bead of blood wells up on my finger.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should have told you it was the handle.”
“It’s fine.” I bring my finger to my mouth, sucking on it to dull the pain—when I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that’s so unnerving I take my finger out of my mouth, rummaging through the drawer by the register until I find a stray Band-Aid. I quickly wrap it around my finger. “Just a nick.”
