Page 18 of Bear and Book

Every so often, there’d be a yelp when he hit his thumb, followed by an almost comically upbeat, “It’s fine!”

Now, nothing. I straightened slowly, brushing the dust off my hands, and glanced toward the front. The shelf was still there, but the toolbox was gone. So was he.

Good, I told myself.

I’d gotten more done in the past ten minutes than in the previous hour with him hovering nearby.

He kept asking me random questions like what my “top three desert-island books” were or whether I thought foxes could be bribed with baked goods.

I didn’t have time to indulge every chatty volunteer who wandered in, no matter how absurdly broad-shouldered or distractingly good-natured they happened to be.

Still… I caught myself listening for his voice.

It was ridiculous, really. I’d worked alone for years and had never once thought, You know what this place needs? A bear who hums while he works.

And yet, the shop felt emptier without him in it. The air seemed flatter, like someone had taken a painting off the wall and left the nail behind.

I went back to alphabetizing, determined to ignore it. My fingers fumbled over the spines, and I had to recheck the order twice.

This is fine, I told myself. You’ve had solitude before. You prefer it.

Except solitude had never felt quite so loud.

Every creak of the building, every sigh from the vents, every rustle of pages as I moved them. It all seemed to underline the fact that Leo wasn’t there anymore.

It had been a long time since I’d had someone I could just… talk to. Not about business, not about supply orders, or anything business related. Just talk.

Even if his idea of conversation topics involved ranking pastry flavors or explaining the plot of a romantic comedy he thought I had to see.

The bell over the door jingled.

I turned, halfway ready to tell whichever customer it was that we weren’t open for browsing yet. But it wasn’t a customer.

It was Leo. Again.

He had a paper bag in one hand, the toolbox in the other, and that same bright, unguarded grin he seemed to wear like armor.

“You left,” I said, which was possibly the rudest thing I could’ve opened with.

“I did,” Leo admitted easily, stepping inside. “To get you dinner.”

“I don’t need—” I began.

“So you don’t forget to eat,” he interrupted, in a tone that somehow managed to be bossy and warm at the same time.

He set the bag down on the counter like a peace offering.

“Pulled pork sandwiches from The Hollow Pit. And coleslaw. I got extra pickles because you strike me as a pickle person,” he announced.

“I’m not,” I said, because that’s what I always said. But he just smirked like he didn’t believe me.

“I’ll take your pickles, then,” Leo said with a satisfied nod.

Leo was already unpacking the food, the scent of smoky barbecue making my stomach betray me with a low growl. He caught it, of course. His grin turned smug.

“I was working,” I said, as if that excused anything.

“And now you’re eating,” Leo said simply, already sliding a sandwich toward me.