“She’s got a bite,” Treehorn says, much louder than I think he intends to. “Like you. That must be fun.”
Elliot shakes his head, tail wagging as he pats the old man on the shoulder.
“It is,” he whispers. “Have a nice night, Tree.”
“Goodnight, young Cross.” He pats Elliot back, then waves a hand absentmindedly. “Goodnight, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
“Goodnight,” I call back. Though I don’t think he’s listening as the door opens and he steps out into the night, muttering to himself.
As soon as the door shuts and the chime stops, I turn on Elliot.
“You work here?” I ask, biting back a splitting grin.
“Work would imply that I get paid,” he says dryly. “This is more of a hostage situation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he still gets mad if I’m late.”
I roll my eyes at his cryptic answer and decide I don’t care enough to ask again. Instead, I stand beside the front desk, surveying the store, as he locks the door and changes the sign in the window from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED.’
It’s cozy in here, like a bookstore should be—warm woods, soft lighting, and the smell of old printed paper. There’s a song playing over a speaker somewhere toward the back, a smooth, jazzy tune with a lilting trumpet and slow piano.
No wonder he hates the library. It’s a hovel compared to this.
“I just have a few carts to reshelve,” Elliot says, sorting through a stack of stray books. “You can come with me if you want. It’s not as tight as the archive, but if you’d rather wait here, we can talk when I’m done.”
My eyes roll at his mention of the archive.
“I’m—”
“Fine…” he interrupts. “We know.”
For a second, he looks exhausted as he sighs and pries at the leather choker.
I don’t understand why he keeps wearing that ugly thing. It doesn’t seem like he likes it very much.
He recovers, rolling his shoulders back and straightening to his full height.
“Are you coming or not?” he asks.
I shrug.
“Sounds better than just sitting here.”
“Great, grab a stack.”
“A stack? I don’t think I?—”
“Nope. Too late,” he says. “You already said yes. Here.”
He places a pile of books in my hands rather than waiting for me to collect my own, and I know he’s enjoying this a little too much when he laughs as I groan.
“I’m serious about sticking close,” he adds. “You’ll get lost if you aren’t careful.”
I frown, peering around once more.
From here, I can see all eight rows of shelving. They’re spaced fairly wide, but I can clearly see them all.
