The shop is always so quiet at the end of the day. It's the time I like best, next to those easy mornings.Rain smears shadows across the windows. I'm trying to do some of the shelving alone, Flint having run out a little while ago on an errand for Betsy. She's too old to go out in this weather, regardless of what she believes, so I asked him to take her some dinner. I hum under my breath, filling the quietair.
The chime of the door startles me, almost causing me to drop the load of books in my arms. I turn, frowning.
Brett steps inside, half silhouetted against the rain. His hair is damp and the smile on his face seems wrong.
I feel my heart skip in my chest and curse myself for asking Flint to take Betsy dinner.
“We're closed,” I say, my voice firm but not loud enough, even to my own ears.
He shuts the door behind him. Fear floods my body when I hear him flip the lock. My stomach ties itself in greasy knots.
“You looked busy,” Brett says. “Didn't want to interrupt you earlier. Figured I'd wait 'til the place was nice and quiet.” He pauses. “I did try to call you, a few times, but you aren’t answering.”
When the fuck was he here? I try to wrack my brain, but realize the last time I remember seeing him was the night at the bar. The reprieve has been nice, honestly.
My unease is growing by leaps and bounds. Odd — I thought it was already maxed.
“You can't be here.” I'm trying for bravado, but I'm really just praying that Flint hurries his ass up.
He smiles. “You said that last time.”
“And I meant it.” I try to put some steel in my voice. “Please leave.”
Apparently, I fail because he just steps further in.“You know what I think?” he says, voice entirely too casual for the moment. “I think you say no because you want to be chased. You like making guys work for it.”
I grind my teeth. “This isn't flirting, Brett. It's harassment.”
His grin falters, his expression hardening. “I think I've worked e-fucking-nough,” he spits.
Then, that hideous grin is back, distorting his features.
“You always get so cold when we're alone,” he says, pacing in a lazy circle around me. “But at the club, when you let me dance with you... I felt something. You didn't pull away. You didn't say no. That bitch, Annemarie, interfered because she was jealous I want you instead of her.”
“Because I froze and you can’t take a hint,” I protest.
He tsks. “Com'on, Casie. You're not scared of me.”
Something hungry slithers into his gaze.
“But you could be.”
Just as quickly as it appeared, the hunger dissolves from his gaze, leaving something calculating in its wake.
“I've been nothing but nice to you. Brought you coffee. Bought books I have no fucking intention of reading. Supported the absolute nonsense that is this” — he gestures around — “joke of a bookstore. I've defended you when people have talked shit. You owe me at least one, honest date.”
I step back, my skin crawling simply because he's gotten closer. “I owe you nothing.”
“There’s that playing hard to get again,” he smiles. “You act like this is some big misunderstanding, but I know what you've been doing.”
He comes towards me and I stiffen my spine. I am not going to run away from this idiot.
“You wore that red skirt last week. The one that clings to your ass when you shelve the lower racks. Don't try to pretend like that wasn't for me. You know red is my favorite color.”
The air goes still. I can feel my breath backing up in my lungs.
“You're delusional.”
He shrugs.
