I believe her. She doesn’t look helpless. She looks annoyed, capable, and stubborn. But capable and safe aren’t the same thing.
“All right,” I say.
Suspicion narrows her eyes. “That was too easy.”
“I need books, though.”
“You need books,” she repeats, glancing from my gym bag to my face.
“A lot of them.” I look past her into the shop, where shelves line the walls. “Might take hours.”
“Hours. Is that so.”
“Maybe all day.”
Her lips press together, fighting a smile. “I open in ten minutes. If you’re genuinely buying books, you’re welcome to browse. If you hover over me and intimidate customers, I’m kicking you out.”
She finishes the glass while I stand nearby, watching the street and pretending not to notice the way her top pulls acrossher breasts when she reaches. I’ve held focus under more pressure than this, but Emi has me working for it.
When the last of the paint comes off, she wipes the glass dry and steps down. I take the stepladder before she can, folding it with one hand. She opens her mouth, probably to argue, then seems to decide a ladder isn’t worth the fight.
Inside, the bookstore is narrow and deep, with shelves along both walls, a counter near the back, and handwritten recommendation cards tucked beneath tidy stacks. A faded armchair sits near the front window. Everything about the place feels cared for.
Emi disappears through a door behind the counter to put the supplies away. I check the space with the attention I’d use on any job. Front entrance. Back hallway. Restroom. Employees-only door. Rear exit into an alley. No cameras that I can see. No visible alarm keypad.
By the time Emi returns, I’m standing in the mystery section with a paperback in my hand.
“Finding everything okay?” she asks, coming around the counter with a chipped mug.
“I’ve been here two minutes.”
“Retail script. I’m legally required to say it.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
She takes a sip from her mug and studies me over the rim. “A siren goes off in the back and the ghost of customer service past appears.”
The bell over the door rings, and Emi turns away to greet the first customer. I watch the shift in her immediately. She becomes open, easy, welcoming. She knows the woman by name, asks about a book club, and recommends two novels while moving effortlessly around the shop.
For the next few hours, I learn Emi in pieces.
She hums when she restocks. She remembers which customers hate sad endings, which ones only buy hardcovers, and which ones need a chair brought over because standing too long hurts their knees. When a man complains that a romance display is taking up too much space near the front, she smiles and tells him joy has earned the square footage.
Every interaction adds another problem to the one already forming in my chest.
Around noon, she finds me in the local history section holding a book I haven’t read a word of. “Is this how you always shop?” she asks, reaching past me to straighten a book someone left crooked.
“I’m comparing options,” I say.
“You’ve compared half the store.”
“I’m very comprehensive.”
She laughs. It’s the prettiest damn sound I’ve ever heard.
Then the bell rings again, and she steps back. “I should get that.”
“I’ll be here.”
