“Tell me you finally hooked up.”
I hesitated, heat rising in my cheeks. “I can’t say.”
She gave me the kind of smile only someone juggling three kids and a lawyer husband could manage—sympathetic, wry, and a little exasperated. “Wes, you’re glowing like my Christmas tree.”
“Excuse me?” someone called, and I had to go and help Mrs. Hollier, who was in to pick up a pre-order. Thank God for customers.
The morning didn’t get any quieter, and as the sales rang up, the piles of used books dwindled, and the steady stream of customers never seemed to slow, I found a second wind and felt pride that the store was mine, that people came, that it mattered. Admittedly, every quiet moment, my thoughts flickered back to last night, to what had happened between Hunter and me. Each time I thought about sneaking next door for a coffee, another person wanted to talk, to browse, to ask for recommendations. And somehow, a little after eleven, a coffee appeared on my counter—froufrou, with extra cream. I never saw Hunter bring it in. Probably because I was cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by a circle of preschoolers chattering about caterpillars that were very, very hungry. The cup waited until the story was done, a small, perfect reminder that he’d been there, even when I hadn’t seen him.
The bell over the door jingled again around lunchtime, after I ushered out ten very happypreschoolers and the gaggle of attached parents, and there was Hunter, balancing a takeout bag and two cups. He set them on the counter with an easy smile.
“You looked busy when I came in earlier,” he said.
“Saturdays,” I said, and then stopped, because my brain wasn’t engaging.
“Yeah,” he said, as if he understood what that one word meant without me expanding. “Anyway, thought you might not get time to eat.”
I blinked at the sandwiches and chips he unpacked, then at the inevitable coffee with extra cream. Heat rose in my cheeks, and I stammered, “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to,” he cut in, confident, as he always was.
That confidence left me flustered, fumbling for words. “Still, it’s—just because we… I mean, you don’t have to bring me food like this.”
A flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. He knew he was teasing, but I swear he felt responsible for confusing me. “Thought you might need the energy.”
“Hunter…”
“Yeah?” He leaned into my space, and I took a step back—fuck knows why—and his gaze flickered with uncertainty, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d gone too far, and that was why I stepped back. He couldn’t know that if I hadn’t moved, I‘d have gripped him hard and kissedhim in my busy store. “Unless…you don’t want me to bring you coffee? Is that wrong? Did I overstep?”
I shook my head quickly, too quickly. “No, I—I love it. Thank you.”
His grin softened, and he nudged the bag toward me. “Eat. And drink. Ham on rye, extra mustard, plain chips, I got the order right, didn’t I?”
“How do you know that?” I asked, but had an internald’ohmoment, because I always ordered the same thing whenever I went next door. “Stupid question,” I murmured, embarrassed all over again, but unable to hide the way my heart kicked at the simple fact that he’d remembered.
It’s his job to learn orders. My head said.
Yeah, but he rememberedmine. My heart countered.
Then he smiled, and god, it was the kind of life-altering thing that stole my breath, followed by a need so strong it shook me, followed by embarrassment—because this wasn’t going anywhere, and I didn’t do one-night stands.
“Are you okay?” he asked me.
I nodded, smiled, and made my excuses as a group of teenagers walked in chattering loudly. He smiled again—stop doing that—and then he left.
“Oh my god, the heat!” Brooke gave a theatrical gasp and waved a hand in front of her face.
“You’re fired,” I murmured.
She grinned. “You’d have to hire me first.”
I rolled my eyes at her as if it was nothing, but inside, I was a mess. What was happening here? He was planning to leave, chasing tenure in a college that would respect him. I was working every hour I could to make sure I could afford to keep The Story Lantern open, because I loved Wishing Tree, and I loved this life I’d made. He wanted permanence somewhere else; I wanted it here—and that difference left me torn wide open.
The store was quiet, Brooke had left, and I’d just made a cup of tea and was halfway through counting the day’s receipts when I took a few minutes to check my email. The newest one caught my eye, and had a subject line plain and polite:
“Re: Delivery confirmed—also, a question?”
I saw the sender’s name. Adrian Evans. My reader-heart did a stupid little skip again; the same one it had done when he’d called the store. I opened the email before I could stop myself.
