“He—” I set my coffee down with too much force. “What? Scott Avery reads poetry? The man who called my shop ‘charming but not profitable enough’?”
“Caroline mentioned it. Apparently he’s at the library every Tuesday morning in the poetry section. Sits in the corner with coffee and old books and looks like a man with feelings.”
The information does not compute. Scott Avery is all sharp suits and sharper words. Quarterly profit margins and ruthless negotiations. He owns half of Twin Waves through ReedDevelopment Corp and treats sentiment like a communicable disease.
He does not read poetry. He probably doesn’t even believe in it.
“Caroline probably mixed him up with someone else.”
“She works here four days a week. I think she knows your landlord on sight.”
I focus on re-stacking the rescued books, which is definitely not about avoiding Michelle’s knowing expression. “Well, even if he does read poetry—which I doubt—it doesn’t change the fact that he’s trying to price me out of my own shop.”
“Has he actually raised your rent?”
“Not yet. But he keeps talking about ‘comparable property values’ and making me feel like I’m playing house in someone else’s business.”
“That’s his job. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t?—”
The bell chimes.
We both turn.
Scott Avery stands in the doorway like a GQ model who took a wrong turn into a place that values feelings over profit margins. Expensive charcoal suit, steel-gray tie, Italian leather shoes that have never known a scuff mark, and dark hair that’s silver at the temples.
His eyes, the color of winter storms, are currently fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
Also, I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing my rattiest cardigan—the one with the hole in the left elbow—and jeans that have seen better decades.
“Ladies,” he says in that smooth baritone that sends shivers down my spine against my will and better judgment. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” Michelle’s smile is too bright. “I was just leaving. Jess, I’ll see you for book club tonight?”
“Absolutely,” I say, trying to communicate “don’t you dare abandon me” through aggressive eye contact.
Michelle ignores me completely—thirty years of friendship has made her immune to my silent pleas—and sweeps out with a cheerful wave, the bell chiming her exit like a death knell.
Silence fills the bookstore.
Austen jumps down from the counter with a thud and proceeds to wind around Scott’s ankles, purring like a traitor who’d sell my loyalty for the low price of ankle attention.
“Your cat likes me,” Scott observes.
“My cat has terrible judgment. He also likes the mailman and that tourist who tried to steal a first edition last month.”
Something that might be amusement flickers across Scott’s face, gone so fast I could have imagined it. “High praise, being compared to a petty criminal.”
“Take it up with Austen. He’s the one lowering his standards.”
Scott steps farther into the shop, and I become acutely aware that we’re alone and my hair is doing something unfortunate.
His gaze sweeps the store like he’s conducting an inspection—which, knowing him, he probably is. Calculating square footage, traffic, and all the ways this space could generate better returns if only it wasn’t cluttered with books and feelings.
His gaze lands on my V. Langley display. On the handwritten recommendation card with its not-quite-subtle criticism.
Something shifts in his expression. Pain, maybe. Or recognition. But it’s gone before I can analyze it.
“Still dedicating valuable retail space to escapist fiction?” he asks mildly.
