What kind of life has he lived to become so hard-edged?
The morning passes in a strange dance. I help customers, shelve new arrivals, and process online orders, but I'm constantly aware of him. When he moves to work near the poetry section, I find reasons to straighten books three aisles away. When he kneels to drill something into the baseboards, I suddenly need to dust the top shelves.
But it's not fear driving me away. It's the opposite. Every time I get close to him, my heart races like I've sprinted up a hill.
"Ms. Carter."
I startle, nearly falling off the small footstool where I'm arranging a display. He's behind me, closer than I expected.
"Julia," I correct him automatically. "Please."
"Julia." The way he says my name—drawing out each syllable like he's tasting it—sends shivers down my spine.
"Yes?"
"Need to check behind these shelves. Move."
It's not a request. I step aside, hugging a stack of new releases to my chest like a shield. As he leans past me, I catch his scent—something woodsy and masculine mixed with coffee and a hintof metal. Nothing like the carefully chosen colognes of the few boys I dated in college. This is raw. Real.
He's so close I can see the stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar near his right eyebrow. My breath catches. He freezes, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment we're suspended in something that feels dangerous and inevitable.
"Sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
He doesn't respond, just continues working, but I notice his movements are stiffer now, his jaw clenched tight.
At noon, the lunch rush brings in a steady stream of customers. I lose track of Butch until I'm helping a young man find a specific fantasy novel. The customer stands too close, his smile too familiar as he asks about my recommendations.
"I could take you to dinner, discuss books," he suggests, leaning against the shelf.
Before I can form a polite rejection, a shadow falls over us. Butch towers behind me, toolbelt slung low on his hips, expression thunderous.
"Need to install a sensor here," he says flatly. "Move."
The customer glances between us, then backs away. "Maybe another time," he says to me, quickly paying for his book before leaving.
I turn to face Butch, confusion warring with something else—something that feels oddly like relief.
"There's no sensor scheduled for this section," I say quietly.
His eyes narrow. "There is now."
He brushes past me, and I swear I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds like "mine," but that can't be right. Can it? The word echoes in my head as I return to the register, my fingers trembling slightly as I count change.
By three o'clock, the store is empty except for us. I'm hyperaware of him working in the back office now, theoccasional drill sound or muttered curse floating out to me. The store feels different with him in it—smaller somehow, charged with an energy I don't understand.
I'm shelving returns when he appears at the end of the aisle, blocking the exit. My heart jumps to my throat.
"Need you to come see this," he says.
I follow him to the back office, conscious of how small I feel beside his bulk. The room seems to shrink when we enter it together. He points to the monitor he's installed, showing camera feeds from various angles around the store.
"This one has night vision," he explains, pointing to a feed of the back door. "Motion activated. Anyone tries getting in, you'll know."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful. "I feel safer already."
Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "That's the point."
Our arms brush as he shows me how to operate the system. Each accidental touch sends electricity skittering across my skin. We're standing too close in this tiny office, but I can't make myself step away.
