He was here. For the grand opening. Boy oh boy was I glad I had worn a suit and pulled my raggy hair back into a short little bun.
The shop was pretty busy, lots of people browsing, which made my heart sing. Then he walked in with his black hat and sad eyes, bruised and battered, and all I could think of doing was easing him into a bath of Epsom salts then kissing the dark marks on his throat.
Gah. He was so pretty. And I was so weak. So very weak. That man needed someone to fuss over him, I could tell. When he spied me over by the World War II section his somber mood lifted slightly as a small smile pulled at his lush lips. He tapped his hat with his right hand, the left still resting in a sling. A bull. A bull had stepped on him he had said, which meant he played with bulls. Rode them probably. Such a machismo sport. Dangerous. Sexy.
No, not sexy!
Right. Not sexy. Boorish. So very boorish.
“…hardcover?”
I snapped back to my customer. Older man with long silver whiskers and bright blue eyes.
“Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming. Let me see if the publisher has it in hardcover.” I gave the old gent a smile then dashed off to my laptop, darting around a young woman perusing a biography of Elizabeth Taylor. The bull rider met me at the register with the Ginsberg book in his hand. He placed it on the counter then removed his hat. How as it possible he looked so good with hat hair? Even flattened down those dark locks begged to have fingers carded through them.
“I tried,” he confessed just as the door opened with a chilly gust of spring wind. I’d still not bought any bells. “I really did but I just could not handle the run-on sentences.”
“Understood. Many people struggle with that. If you want to swap this out for something else please take a gander at the poetry section. I have lots more stock now.”
“Thanks, Aubrey.”
“You’re welcome…” I let it hang as I typed in the search bar at the publisher’s page for hardcover information.
“Hoyt. Hoyt Knox. I’m staying out at the Snow Creek Ranch for a few months.”
“Oh that sounds nice. I’m new to town so don’t know about that ranch but I think cows are incredibly cute.”
He smiled at me with such sincerity I felt woozy. White teeth. So nice and white. Straight. Obviously the bulls hadn’t knocked his teeth out or if they had he’d had some wonderful dental work. I liked nice smiles on big men with large?—
Stop! No. Down boy. This man is heartbreak in tight Wranglers.
“I’ll peruse. Thanks.” He returned his hat to his head.
“Sure, Hoyt.” I yanked my sight from his to focus on my other customer. After locating the hardcover edition I noted the price, which was pretty steep, then returned to the World War II section to discuss. The old gent seemed happy to pay for the hardcover so we returned to the checkout desk to get his order placed and get his payment. All the while I kept peeking over at the rather large poetry section—sue me I loved words with verse, meter, and rhyme—to see him paging through a small tome with a blue dustcover with red hills and blue sky.
He glanced my way from under the brim of his hat. I quickly glanced at the woman who had stepped up to the register with four romance novels and a feather quill pen. We chatted a bit as I rang her out. She signed up for my newsletter and for the romance book club I was forming. The checkout desk was covered with signup sheets for book clubs, poetry readings, and a writing group. All pipe dreams right now but someday theywould all come to life. I just needed about twelve or so more hours in a day.
When I looked back at Hoyt he was deeply engrossed in a paperback. He stood slouched, his head bowed, his stance relaxed. That sling held a thick arm to his chest. The bruising on his neck was ghastly. Shades of purple and green with dark blue blotches. That must have hurt so darn much. Was he icing it as he should be?
Aubrey. We do not care if he’s icing his booboo. He’s off limits. We’re friars. Celibacy is our jimjam now.
Not all friars are celibate.
Aubrey, this is not helping. We are celibate. Chaste. No man shall touch us.
He’s very handsome. Did you see how dark brown his eyes are?
I give up…
“Hello, I have a question about a collection of poetry books my sister wanted me to pick up for her. It’s a vintage set of five books?”
The little old woman gazed up at me through tiny wire-rim glasses. “Oh yes, she called yesterday. The books are in the back so no one else would ask about them. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, thank you so much. She’s a retired teacher and always had a great love of the classic poets.”
“Me too.” I smiled at her then hurried into the back to grab the five-book set. She was right where I left her when I returned, as was Hoyt. Not that I was checking where he was because I was all friar. “Here we go. They’re in good shape as you can see, the boards and spines are in sound condition. These were originally printed for high school students in the thirties, by Tally Brooks Publishing Company in Massachusetts. Well worth the seventy-five dollars that I’m asking. If you sign up for my BookwormBrigade club I’ll take off ten percent of the cover price when you hit ten purchases.”
“Oh that’s delightful! Do we get a punch card?”
