For goodness sake. That’s ridiculous. I can’t be in love with him. We don’t even know each other. Get. It. Together.
“We found it.”
I snap my head up to see Chase and the customer both coming back, grinning. “That’s great.” It really is. There’s always a sense of accomplishment when I’m able to track down one of these mysterious books that customers come in asking for. Some days, it’s exhausting, but seeing this new customer, clutching the hardback like a prized possession, it’s hard to feel anything but exhilarated. With a side of ankle pain, of course.
“Perfect. Do you need anything else today?”
“No, this will do it.” The customer slides the book across the counter to me.
“Great. In my opinion, this is her best work, so I hope you enjoy it.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for my grandchild.”
I pause for a second, trying to gauge how I want to proceed. It’s a great book, but it’s meant for a mature audience. Nothing crazy, but some scenes aren’t for young readers. At least not without some oversight. “That’s wonderful. How old is your grandchild?” If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people love to talk about their kids. And pets. That’s even more true when it comes to grandchildren.
“Oh, he’s not really a kid. He’s off at college now.”
“That’s great. I’m sure he’ll love it.” And now that I know it’s not some twelve-year-old, I feel much better.
I ring her up and slip one of the store bookmarks between the pages. “I hope your grandson enjoys the book. See you again soon.”
I wait until I hear the jingle of the door before I dare look at Chase.
“Thanks. I can count this toward your work hours.”
He waves me off. “It’s no problem. I don’t want you walking too much until your ankle feels better. They can be deceivingly tricky.”
So can straight guys whom I have a giant crush on. “Well, it’s unnecessary, but nice.”
“Just tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll handle it for you.”
“I’m not sure?—”
“Seriously. Let me do this.” He clears his throat a few times. “I want to.”
It’s the way he says it that breaks my resolve. He says it like his whole life is hanging by a thread, and, apparently, that one thread is assisting me.
I’ve been in that position multiple times, where the only thing keeping me from completely losing my mind is being busy, doing anything that made me feel like I still had a purpose in the world. When Aunt May died, the thing that kept me going in those first grief-filled months was building this place. Some days, I came here and ripped up old flooring for twelve hours straight, keeping at it until my back literally gave out.
“Okay. Thank you for the help.” Maybe I can keep him running around the shop. Away from me.
“Great. Point me in the right direction.”
“There’s a box in the back with some new hardback books. They go to a table near the front. It’s already cleaned off.” It’s thefun part of the week, when I get to turn over some of the displays to make way for the newest releases.
Could it wait until tomorrow morning? Absolutely. In fact, I wasn’t going to put them out until then. Technically, that’s when the book comes out, but there’s no ban on putting it out a few hours early. I checked. Some books have strict requirements and putting them out early could mean I lose the ability to order from the publisher. Most aren’t that strict. If I sell a copy or two a day earlier, no one will be mad. In fact, they’ll be happy to have the sales figures.
“Got it.” He heads toward the back room. If I stare at his ass in those tiny shorts as he walks away for a little longer than necessary, we’ll call it a side effect of the ibuprofen I took earlier. That or the fact that his ass looks like something sculpted out of marble. What does one even do to get an ass like that?
My guess is that whatever he does involves a lot of squats. I’d love to look like that, but there’s no chance I’m doing any of that bullshit. Guess I’ll have to live with the flat butt God gave me.
“Are these the ones?” He holds up a big box full of books.
“Yep, you got it.” I give him two big thumbs-up because, of course, I do. Could I be cool for even a single minute? Apparently not.
He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he walks off with the box in his hand, whistling a song that sounds vaguely familiar.
It’s weird to let someone else do the work. It’s my store, so I usually do all the big jobs. Or, really, all the jobs. The clerks I hire are there to help customers find books on the shelves, place orders, and ring people up. The rest of the stuff feels too big to ask them to do. I’m aware it’s called delegating, but I only have help part of the time. Plus, I’m way too much of a control freak. Or so I’ve been told.
