“And you belong to it?”
“Guilty.”
She studies me for a second longer than necessary. “Are you always this helpful to strangers in bookstores?”
“Only the ones looking for The Little Prince.”
“That’s a very specific rule.”
“It’s a very specific book.”
She nods slowly. “Fair.”
There’s a brief pause between us. Not awkward. Just… quiet. She flips the book open absentmindedly, scanning the first page before closing it again carefully.
“You come here often?” she asks.
I gesture vaguely around the store. “More than is probably healthy.”
Her gaze drifts across the shelves. “It’s nice,” she says softly.
“It is.”
“My father loved places like this,” she continues. “Small bookstores. Second-hand shops. He said the best stories always hide in quiet places.”
I feel something tighten faintly in my chest at that. “My mother used to say the same thing.”
Her head lifts slightly. “Really?”
I nod. “She loved bookstores.”
“What about you?” I glance around the room.
The wooden shelves. The crooked stacks of novels. The quiet rustle of pages somewhere behind us. “I grew up in them,” I say simply.
She smiles faintly. “That explains the detective-level book recognition.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Occupational?” she repeats.
I realize I might have revealed more than intended. “Let’s just say books are… involved in my job.”
Her curiosity sharpens immediately. “What do you do?”
“I run a publishing house.” Her eyebrows lift.
“That sounds impressive.”
“It mostly involves reading manuscripts and drinking too much coffee.”
“And deciding people’s literary futures?”
I shrug. “Occasionally.”
She studies me again. “You do look like you are not the corporate type.”
I snort softly. “My father would agree with you.”
