CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
MICAH
The race to reach the blinking dot before it can retreat to the safety of her apartment again has me crossing streets against the lights and making Warren’s job a low-key nightmare. When I reach the entrance to the arcade, I run a hand through my hair and pause for a second before heading inside.
At the door of the second-hand shop, I spy Crimson. She’s behind the counter, chatting with a customer. It never occurred to me until this moment that it might be a job.
Her eyes flick to the door when the bell jingles, return to the client, then cut back to me, widening in shock.
Suddenly, this feels like a bad idea. The sort of spur-of-the-moment idea that ends up making things a thousand times worse.
Pity that I’m committed to it. I step inside, giving her a frown as though I didn’t expect to see her here, then a nod.
The shelves nearest me are full of knick-knacks. I pick up a duck that doubles as a vase, like a poor cousin to a Crown Lynn swan. My mother would think I’d lost my mind if I bought this for her, a response that immediately solidifies the intention.
“Hey,” Crimson says when the previous customer has been served. She chews on the inside of her cheek as she glances between me and the ceramic duck. “You know, if you were just searching for an excuse to talk to me, you don’t have to buy this.”
“I was,” I freely admit with a smile, “but now I’ve touched and held the duck it’s become an absolute must-buy purchase. Can you do gift-wrapping?”
“Ah, sure,” she responds, her gaze flicking over to a back office before returning to me. “Would you like to fill out a card? Or I can do that for you.”
I scrawl a quick message to my mother, then pass it to Crimson to include, and she pins it to the bow.
“I’m sure she’ll love it.” She presses her lips together while I nod with enthusiasm, then her eyes move back to the office again.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have come during your work hours.” I pause, scanning her face for minute clues of encouragement. She stares down at the counter, picking at a loose piece of plastic edging.
I’m about to say goodbye when she frowns and glances back up at me. “Did you hear about your brother and Brianna?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, feeling more awkward with each passing moment. Honestly, I should just have waited outside until she got off work, thrown her over my shoulder, and carted her home. “Guess the Webb family has fallen off your Christmas card list, then.”
“Guess so.”
Well, fuck. This isn’t awkward at all.
“Do you…?” She trails off and I lean towards her. My hands ache to touch her, even if it’s a fleeting brush against her fingertips. “I get off work in three hours.”
“Want me to keep you company?”
The startled expression tells me that wasn’t what she expected, then she bites her lips to hide a smile. “Has it always been your ambition to work in a second-hand store?”
“Yes. Didn’t I ever mention that? I feel like I did. It’s always been a life goal and you can help make my dreams come true.”
She nods, jerking her head towards the door when a new customer walks inside, jingling the bell. “Do you understand it’s a volunteer position? We’re not going to be able to pay you the big bucks like you’re used to.”
“I’m sure if I tighten my belt, I’ll manage till the end of the week.”
“Sure. Mr Moneybags himself.”
She crosses her eyes, throwing back the same nickname I teased her with the first night we met.
A customer walks forward and I step to the side, then move around to join Crimson behind the counter. She jumps when my hip brushes against hers, then concentrates on the task in front of her while my eyes eat up the sight of her hair, the tight tendrils that escape the bun she’s forced her ringlets into, the delightful curve of her neck.
“You’re meant to be helping,” she says in a mild voice, nodding to the next customer in line and I move slightly to the side, signalling to the woman to step forward. I’ve never worked a counter before but a lifetime of being on the other side puts me in good stead. Even when we hit a busy spurt in the evening, between six and seven, I find the routine of small talk, packaging, charging, and issuing receipts comfortable.
“Thanks for the furniture,” I finally remember to say when the crowds thin again to one or two every ten minutes. “It all turned up today. It was quite a relief to send all the old stuff off to a better home.”
“You didn’t donate it, did you?” she asks in horror, probably imagining the torture continuing to an unsuspecting new owner.
