AllFreeNovel
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With mismatched socks and no bra, but I did it.
In my absence, Hazel Books got a fresh coat of paint. Now, the store is a stark white, with the accents painted a dark cherry red. After I get past the shock of my beloved bookstore getting a facelift, I have to admit the new paint suits it. I tip my imaginary hat at Zoltar the mechanical fortune reader inside his glass box, unbothered next to a window display of curated books on the Redwoods. When I walk in, the doorbell chimes.
A head of salt and pepper curls shoots up from the cash register. She scans me for a moment, then her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh!”
Sara circles the counter and runs toward me. Her long dress is a blur of periwinkle flowers against her brown skin and her Birkenstocks clack on the linoleum tiles.
“You’re here,” she says a bit too loud in my ear as her arms circle my shoulders. She smells like redwood and vanilla shortbread.
“It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Kane.”
Sara holds me at arm’s length and waves a hand in the air. “Oh please, none of that. You’re a grown up now, no need for the formalities.”
She smiles as she assesses me, then as if she’s remembered something, the corners of her lips twist down. “Esme, I’m so sorry about your grandma.”
I shake my head. “Please, don’t mention it.”
“No, I mean it. She’d come in at least once a week to pick up a new romance. That woman could fly through ‘em. We’d always just chat for a while, mostly about you, of course.”
Thoughts of my grandmother make the sore spots of my heart bleed anew, so I try to steer the conversation onto safer grounds. “Thank you for giving my old job back, I really appreciate it.”
Sara harrumphs. “You say that like I don’t get anything out of that. Do you have any idea how hard it is to hire passionate booksellers in this town? Come on, let me show you around a bit.”
Other than some fresh paint and a couple new — used — rugs, not much has changed in the organization of the store. Collectible books and memorabilia still have their place in the center of store on the massive antique oak table. The new arrivals display right up front is new, and so is the tiny local authors section against the stairs. Hidden under the overhang of the gallery, next to vast selection of local maps, is a cozy reading nook with two oversized bean bags and some string lights hanging from the gallery’s railing.
With two steaming mugs of spearmint and ginger tea in hand we make ourselves comfortable on the bean bags. I blow on the cup and let the steam pearl on my skin, carrying the wonderful spicy aroma with it. Sara and I discuss what she’ll need me to do around the store, what days she’d like me to work, and the likes.
We’re going over administrative details when the bell on the door chimes.
“A customer,” Sara chirps, and she’s on her feet in a second.
I follow. “I’ve got it.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “No, you just got here, I —“
“Sara, you’re paying me to be here. Seriously, I’ve got it.”
She seems to think this over at first but nods and reaches for my empty mug, before disappearing in the backroom. I plaster my best customer service smile on as I head over to the register. Whoever walked in must be browsing the stacks, because I can’t see them, so instead I busy myself reorganizing the packaging supplies under the desk.
Someone clears their throat, and I shoot up. The breath catches in my throat when I see who it is. If possible, the guy from last night is more handsome in the daylight, which is quite the feat. He’s tall — towering at least six inches above me, impressive considering I’m five-eleven — but lean, built like a swimmer, which gives his body a sinuous quality, like a cheetah ready to strike. In the sunlight, the skin that looked pale last night displays a cool olive tinge, teetering on gray. It should look sickly, but comes off otherworldly, foreign.
What was his name again? Tei-something? Teizel?
“Long time no see,” he says in his deep, gravely baritone voice. His accent is subtle and difficult to place, but sounds somewhat East European, somewhat British.
I try to fake a smile. “What are you doing here?”
He waves a book in the air. His hand is large, covered in protruding veins, and several silver rings adorn his fingers. The rolled sleeve of his black shirt display a handful of tattoos snaking up his arms, circles with lines running through them in different directions. “Looking for a good fall reading.”
The book he’s holding up is a recent horror release. Of course, I’ve read it — it’s about a family who moves back to their hometown to help out their son who sees ghosts. A little too on the nose for me personally.
He must see it in my face, because he laughs. The sound is haunting, like there’s a dangerous undercurrent to his amusement. “Maybe I should go pick out something different.”
I’m quick to shake my head. “No, it’s good. Very old-school Stephen King, if you’re into that kind of horror.”
“And you’re not?”
“No, I love Stephen King.”
