“Don’t start,” Ollie warned, though there was no heat in it. His mom missed nothing, and it figured she’d remember how attentive Ollie had been whenever Finn brought Brooklyn in when she was younger. “He’s just the contractor. Very professional. Very…contractor-y.”
“Contractor-y isn’t a word, sweetheart.”
“It is now. I help run a bookstore. I can make up words. It’s a perk of the job.”
His mother laughed again, the sound easing some of the tension in Ollie’s shoulders. “Fine, I’ll stop fishing. Your father and I will be home tomorrow evening. Are you sure you don’t need us to come back today?”
“Positive. Enjoy Aunt Marge’s cooking and her seventeen cats. I’ve got this covered.” Ollie plucked a donut with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles out of the box. They were his favorite, but he only ate them when he was alone because most people thought they were for kids. They were so wrong. “The construction guys will be here soon. I should go.”
“Okay, love. Call if you need anything. And, Ollie? Try to eat something besides carbs today.”
“No promises,” he replied, eyeing his breakfast. “Love you, Mom.”
After hanging up, Ollie carried his coffee to the front of the store, surveying the space with a critical eye. He’d rearranged the display tables yesterday to create a clear path for the construction crew, but now he second-guessed the configuration. Would they need more room? Less? Should he move the new releases display away from the window, or would that make the store look too empty from the street?
He set down his coffee and began shifting a table six inches to the left, then changed his mind and moved it back. Then shifted it again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, pushing his glasses up. “They’re professionals. They can work around a table.”
Still, he spent the next forty-five minutes arranging and rearranging, a physical manifestation of the anxiety swirling inside him. The bookstore’s finances had been precarious even before a washing machine decided to rain destruction from above. His parents hadn’t said anything, but Ollie knew they were worried—about the store, about their retirement, about his future.
By seven-thirty, he’d worked himself into such a state that when his phone chimed with a text, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
It was from Jules.
Deep breaths. Don’t rearrange the entire store on your own. Finn will be impressed by your book knowledge, not your furniture placement skills.
Ollie snorted.
How did you know I was rearranging things?
Because I know you.
Busted.
Ollie smiled ruefully.
You’re supposed to be my friend, not my conscience.
I can be both. Now stop obsessing and drink more coffee. You’ll need it.
They weren’t wrong. Ollie drained his now-lukewarm cup and headed back for a refill, checking the time as he went. Twenty minutes until the crew arrived. Twenty minutes to get his nerves under control and project an air of competent bookstore owner rather than barely contained panic.
He was on his third cup of coffee and second nervous circuit of the store when someone rang the doorbell at the front of the store precisely at eight a.m. Ollie spun around so quickly he nearly sloshed coffee over his lucky cardigan.
Finn stood in the doorway, the sun at his back casting him in silhouette for a moment before he stepped inside. He wore work boots, jeans, and a simple gray Henley under an open flannelshirt, a more casual look than the button-down from yesterday, but no less put-together. Behind him was a younger man with similar features, carrying a toolbox and wearing a grin that suggested he found life generally amusing.
“Morning,” Finn said, his voice low and steady. “Hope we’re not too early.”
“Early? No! Perfect timing. Right on time. Exactly on time, actually, which is impressive. Very punctual. I like punctuality. It’s a good quality. In people. And trains.” Ollie clamped his mouth shut, horrified at the stream of consciousness that had just escaped. Three cups of coffee and minimal sleep were clearly a dangerous combination.
The younger man’s grin widened as he set down his toolbox. “I’m Brendan,” he said, extending a hand. “The less punctual, more charming brother. Luckily, the timekeeper will help make sure I’m here on time.”
“Ollie,” he replied, shaking Brendan’s hand. “The caffeinated, slightly manic bookstore owner.”
“So I noticed,” Brendan said cheerfully, earning a sharp look from Finn.
“We’re going to head back so I can show Brendan what needs to be done first,” Finn said, all business. “The rest of the crew will be here shortly to help with the demolition. We’ll start in the back corner as discussed, so you can keep the front section operational. But we need to get anything that’s water-damaged out of here to avoid a hydra of problems down the road.”
