He’d asked me a thousand questions. What our busiest hours were. Whether we tracked inventory digitally or by hand. How often we restocked. Why we took returns.
And underneath every question, I could feel him judging everything. There was a quiet conclusion forming behind those hazel eyes that we weren’t doing things the right way.
Which meant we weren’t doing themhisway.
Today I tried to plant him behind the register where he could actually be useful. We had customers to serve, after all, and I figured if he was busy ringing up sales he’d have less time tearing apart everything Marlene and I had built.
But Flint refused.
“I need to understand how this place runs before I can run it,” he’d said, as if that were perfectly reasonable.
So for the past two hours, I’d trailed behind him while he examined every corner of the store, questioning each system that made Bookish what it was.
And now he was standing in front of the reading nook with his massive arms crossed over his chest, looking at my favorite spot in the store as if it personally offended him.
“This isn’t very inviting,” he growled in that deep, sexy voice of his.
I felt my spine stiffen. “What?”
It wasperfect. Cozy. Homey. Warm. Our regulars loved it, camping out for hours while they read.
The reading nook was the heart and soul of Bookish.
He gestured toward the mismatched armchairs arranged near the romance section, pointing out the worn upholstery I’d never noticed before. “That chair on the left is ratty. The cushion’s shot. Nobody’s going to want to sit in it for more than five minutes.”
“People sit in it all the time,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Mrs. Patterson sits there every Thursday afternoon while she decides which mystery to take home.”
“And thelighting,” he shook his head, his shaggy dark hair brushing against his shoulders with the movement. “It’s fine during the day because of the light from the front windows, but what about in the evenings? That floor lamp’s too dim for actual reading.”
“It’s not usually an issue,” I muttered, even while I realized he might have a point. Ihadnoticed that the reading nook usually cleared out by six p.m.
“And this coffee table,” he nudged it with the toe of his boot, a heavy work boot that looked like it had seen years of mountain trails. “It’s too low. If someone wants to read without holding the book up they can’t. You need something at reading height, like the library has.”
I stared at him, hating the broad set of his shoulders beneath his flannel shirt. He filled up the whole bookstore with his presence.
Flint had to be at least six-two, maybe six-three, and everything about him radiated a kind of rugged authority that made my body do things I refused to acknowledge.
He was older than me, the creases around his eyes suggesting Flint was a man who’d lived hard and didn’t apologize for it.
Just like Sawyer, I thought bitterly.
“The space isn’t inviting for tourists,” Flint continued, apparently unaware that I was mentally cataloging all the reasons I shouldnotfind him attractive. “If we want to draw in the out-of-towners, we need to make them want to stay and browse. Get them to spend their money.”
“We don’t cater totourists,” I informed him as an edge crept into my voice despite my best efforts. “We cater tolocals.”
He turned to look at me then, and I felt the weight of his attention on me. “Tourists have money, hon. Locals don’t.”
“Tourists buy books once and leave.” I lifted my chin, refusing to back down even though every instinct in me was screaming to fold and agree, the way I always did. But something about Flint made me want to stand up to him. “Locals areforever. They come back week after week, month after month. They tell their friends. They bring their kids.They’rethe reason this store has survived for thirty years. Not a few tourists dropping a couple dollars.”
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite respect, but something close to it. “Fair point. But it doesn’t have to be one or the other. We should cater to both.”
“It won’t help if changing things for tourists means alienating the people who actually keep us in business. Besides, why are you trying to change everything?” I hated the whine in my voice. “You’re only here for a month.”
His expression became guarded.
Then he leveled with me, “I poured over Marlene’s books yesterday. The accounting books, not the books for sale. I hate to say it, but Bookish is struggling. If things don’t change fast, these doors probably won’t be open six months from now.”
“What?”
