But Stone doesn't know any of that.
He just sees books that need shelving and gets to work.
I peer at him from the counter. Pretend to be cross-referencing invoices but mostly just watching.
He moves slow. Methodical. Pulls each book from the stack and examines it like he's never seen one before. Turns it over in his massive hands. Checks the spine. The cover. The author's name printed in faded gilt.
One of them is particularly old. A biography of some long-dead explorer. The pages are brittle. Yellow at the edges. The kind of book that threatens to crumble if you breathe on it wrong.
Stone holds it like it might shatter.
His fingers, scarred and thick, cradle the spine with impossible gentleness. He opens it. Just a crack. Peers at the copyright page. His brow furrows in concentration.
My heart does a complicated little flip.
I tell myself it's nothing. Just surprise at seeing someone his size handle something fragile with actual care instead of the usual orc stereotypes about brute strength and casual destruction.
But it's more than that.
It's the way his whole face changes when he reads. Softens. Like the rest of the world falls away and there's only him and the words on the page.
It's intimate in a way I wasn't expecting.
He closes the book. Slides it onto the shelf between two others. Steps back. Checks the alignment. Adjusts it half an inch to the left.
Perfect.
My phone rings on the counter.
I jump. Fumble for it. Nearly drop it twice before I manage to swipe the screen.
Unknown number. Local area code.
I answer anyway because unknown numbers at two in the afternoon are either spam or something I actually need to deal with and I can't afford to ignore either.
"Ellis Books and Brews."
"Ms. Ellis. Jamal Patterson, City Cultural Development Office." The voice is brisk. Professional. The kind that doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "Just calling to confirm your participation in the Heritage Festival next month."
My brain stalls out.
Heritage Festival.
Right.
The thing I signed up for three months ago when the shop was still theoretical and I had optimism instead of a demolished awning.
"Yes," I say, because what else can I say. "Confirmed."
"Excellent. You're scheduled for booth space Saturday and Sunday, ten to six both days. We'll need proof of cultural programming by the fifteenth. That's two weeks from today."
"Cultural programming." I repeat the words like they might make more sense the second time. They don't.
"Cross-cultural engagement activities. Demonstrations. Performances. Educational outreach." He rattles off the list like he's done this a thousand times. Probably has. "It's part of the grant requirements. You did read the grant requirements, didn't you?"
I absolutely did not read the grant requirements.
I skimmed them. At midnight. While eating cereal out of the box and questioning every life choice that led me to this exact moment.
