She’s restocking a display near the front, and even from here, I can see the care she puts into it. The way she angles each book just so. The handwritten cards she’s placing beside certain titles. The small smile when she finds exactly the right book for exactly the right spot.
She’s wearing jeans and an oversized cardigan that’s seen better days—possibly better decades—her hair in that messy twist secured with a pencil. No makeup that I can see. Just Jessica, comfortable in her space, loving what she does.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And I’m about to walk in there with paperwork designed to ruin her day.
This is why I’m single.
I force myself out of the car before I can talk myself out of it, catch my jacket on the door handle, spend fifteen seconds untangling myself while hoping desperately that Jessica isn’t watching, and finally achieve freedom with only moderate damage to my dignity.
The boardwalk is mostly empty at this hour—just a few joggers and early-bird tourists. The morning air smells like salt water and coffee from Michelle’s shop next door, which reminds me that I haven’t had coffee yet, which explains absolutely none of my decisions but feels relevant to my current state of poor judgment.
I pause at the door, watching Jessica through the glass one more moment.
Then I push it open, and the bell chimes my arrival like a warning siren announcing incoming disaster.
Jessica looks up, and an expression flickers across her face. Not quite a smile. Not quite a grimace. A complicated look that clearly communicates “oh good, my least favorite person has arrived to make my morning worse.”
“Mr. Avery,” she says, her voice carefully neutral in that way that means she’s considering violence. “We don’t open for another fifteen minutes.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I have paperwork that needs your signature.” I hold up the folder like it’s a white flag. Like it might protect me from the look in her eyes.
It does not protect me from the look in her eyes.
“Of course you do.” She sets down the book she’s holding—one of mine, I notice with a painful twist, one of the early ones she still carries—and crosses to the counter. “Let’s get this over with. I have shelves to restock and dreams to have crushed, apparently.”
Austen is sprawled across the register like a furry bouncer. When I approach, the cat opens one yellow eye and gives me a look that clearly communicates:I remember you. I tolerated you last time. Don’t push your luck.
“Your cat is judging me,” I observe.
“My cat has excellent taste. Unlike some people who keep showing up uninvited before business hours.”
“To be fair, I was invited. By the lease agreement. Section twelve, paragraph?—”
“If you quote section twelve at me before eight AM, I will throw this paperweight at your head.” She holds up a decorative rock shaped like a book. It looks heavy enough to cause a concussion. “And I have excellent aim.”
“Noted.”
“My cat has better social skills than you do,” she adds.
“Your cat tried to climb my shoulder last time I was here.”
“Like I said. Better social skills. He was attempting physical affection. You threatened a forty percent rent increase.”
She has a point.
Jessica holds out her hand for the folder. “The paperwork?”
I hand it over, and our fingers brush. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the contact like an electric shock all the way to my chest and down to my extremely expensive Italian leather shoes.
She pulls back like she felt it too, then opens the folder with more force than necessary. A page escapes and floats to the floor. We both watch it drift down with the gentle grace of my romantic prospects.
I should leave. Should let her review the documents in peace and come back later for the signature. Should absolutely not stand here watching her read through lease terms that I know by heart because I’ve been staring at them for days trying tofigure out how to protect her without revealing that I’ve been protecting her all along.
Instead, I stay.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment with a lease folder and no self-preservation instincts.
