I nibble on my bottom lip incessantly, trying to wrap my brain around everything. My hand flattens against the necklace Yasmine gave me that’s hidden beneath my shirt. Still hesitant to believe in the strength she claims I possess. She did say that it’ll take time. Perhaps patience is in order. Though I’ve never been great at that.
Taking a deep breath, I glance at my watch to see that several hours have passed as I ate and Yasmine read my cards. Grandma Julia isn’t expecting me home for a few more hours, so I still have time to kill.
A faint smile curls my lips as the small taste of freedom goes straight to my head, intoxicating. So I go to the only place in this town that doesn’t make me feel like an outcast.
The bell jingles as I open the door to the little bookshop. It’s off the main road, down a side street, with barely any signage. This bookstore would be easy to walk past. I have no clue how he’s able to keep it running.
“Rami, my boy! It’s been so long,” Abraham sings, coming through the door on the wall behind the counter.
“It’s only been a week,” I tease.
In his defense, that is a long time for me. Normally I’m here every few days. I rarely buy anything, but he lets me read whatever I want and hang out. He’s easy to talk to, doesn’t feel the incessant need to fix everything, and is willing to simply listen.
It’s my own little spot of heaven—pun intended—I crave so viciously.
When he finally meets my gaze, his entire face drops. His smile, his gentleness, his playful demeanor—all gone. He rounds the counter and is standing inches in front of me in two steps, startling me with his speed.
The gray along his temples sparkles in the incandescent light and stands in stark contrast to his brown hair. The muscles along his square jaw jump. That, along with his normally warm chocolate gaze that has darkened dangerously gives away his anger.
I take a small step back, my shoulders rounding, and I start to curl in on myself.
I don’t think I’d ever noticed how much bigger he is than me. It’s not like I’m small, but at 5’8” I’m taller than most people. At this proximity, though, he’s clearly several inches taller and his shoulders are nearly twice as wide as mine.
His large hand stops my movement by gripping my chin. His touch is firm, but not painful. He forces me to meet his gaze. I watch as those normally kind eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. A mix of apprehension and arousal flit uncomfortably around in my stomach. Never thought I’d be one to enjoy being manhandled, but I can’t deny how his possessive glare makes me feel.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, his voice dropping in tone. He sounds almost scary.
I try to jerk out of his grip, but he’s stronger than he looks. “No one,” I say in warning. “It’s nothing.”
“Rami,” he says, his voice softening. “You have a black eye and a split lip. I know it’s not nothing.”
With a loud exhale, my shoulders drop. “Noah and his friends,” I mumble.
This time when I jerk away from him, he lets me. I wrap my arms around my middle, almost as if I’m trying to hold myself together. Hesitantly, I glance up to watch him through my lashes. One brow raises as he slightly tilts his head to the side, as if he’s listening to someone. But there’s no one there.
Turning my back to him, I continue my explanation. “I tried to outrun them, but Joseph and Isaac were waiting for me, and the four of them ambushed me.”
“Don’t they have classes?” Abraham asks, scratching the stubble growing along his sharp jawline.
“They finish early on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” I say. “They also sometimes skip classes to catch me off guard.”
Abraham turns quickly on his heels, a scowl furrowing his brow harshly and his fists balled tightly against his thighs. His head tilts to the side, and I swear he says, “Make them pay.” But that can’t be right. He said it too quietly to be said to me, and Abraham has always been more passive.
Using the freedom from his judgement, I wander through the aisles of his small shop. He has an entire corner dedicated to Bibles and biblical studies. They’re his bestsellers for sure, though I don’t know with any sort of certainty.
Behind a curtain is his secret stash of occult books he allows me to peruse. None are for sale, of course. But he allows me to thumb through them at my leisure. I wonder if Yasmine and Abraham would get along. I place my hand over the necklace she gave me, hidden beneath my shirt. I try to harness the strength emanating from the stones.
The faint sound of dishes being laid out makes me twirl around to see Abraham setting out a tray of jam, biscuits, and tea. His face has now softened, looking more like the carefree caretaker that I’ve come to call my friend. He lays everything just so. I can’t help the chuckle that bubbles from me; it’s a running joke at his expense that he acts like such a Brit for being an American.
He shakes his head at my antics, but he can’t hide the faint curl of one corner of his mouth. He told me once thateverything is easier over a bracing cup of tea. Andproblems feel smaller when you’re eating jam and biscuits.
Okay, so he’s not wrong.
Abraham takes pride in each of these items. He grows his own herbs for his teas and makes his own jam and biscuits.
I sit on the stool in front of his counter as he pours us both a cuppa and I smear a huge dollop of fig jam on my biscuit.
“You know, in the South these are called cookies,” I tease, taking a huge bite of the buttery amazing-ness.
