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“Um.” I clear my throat, nerves squirming in my belly, and wave an arm at the store. “Come in.”
I still have the phone, squeezed tight in my fist until the plastic creaks. I could still call 911. It’s not too late.
Because what kind of person doesn’t want you to call an ambulance? No one you want in your bookshop after hours, that’s for sure.
Damn it, Leah.
I’ve made a dumbass move, but it’s too late to take it back. Just need to see this through, and hopefully I’ll finish the night with a caramel hot chocolate and not in a shallow grave.
Don’t need to make it easy for him, though.
“Leave that open,” I say when the man goes to close the door behind him. “And, um. Keep your distance.”
The words feel so rude as I force them out, but his mouth quirks with something like approval. “Smart girl.” Then he takes a step, and all the humor drains from his face, leaving nothing but ashen skin and stark lines. His body is so tense,mymuscles are aching in sympathy.
Can’t fake pain like that.
“There’s a chair over here.” I lead the stranger on a slow, agonized procession through the shelves to the kids’ area where I read aloud to them every Saturday, and point at the bright orange velvet armchair on its polka dot rug. When he lowers himself down with a hiss, I shove the phone into his hand. He took way too long to cross the bookshop, and his breathing is ragged.
Wow. I really hope he doesn’t die here. What do you even do with a dead body? Aunt Karen would know. Heck, she’s probably made a few.
I nod at the phone. “Call your doctor. You’re dripping blood through my store.”
Two
Leah
I’d love to be a Florence Nightingale figure. A person with an iron stomach and unflappable sense of calm, who bandages wounds without a single twitch. But when the stranger leans back in the armchair, peeling his coat open and showing a dark shirt soaked with blood, my tongue is suddenly way too big in my mouth.
“You gonna throw up?” He watches me closely as the phone rings, the handset propped between his shoulder and ear. Apart from his ashen skin and shallow breathing, you’d never know he’s hurt. “I can take it from here. Bring that kit over and go.”
Ass. He thinks just ‘cause I let him in, he’s free to boss me around? Well, Aunt Karen left me in charge, and I don’t take that responsibility lightly. The first aid kit rattles in my hands and I force myself to walk forward. “I’m not leaving you in my store unattended.”
The man huffs. “I’m not going to steal your shitty notebooks. Relax.”
I hate this guy.
“They are notshitty.” I ordered them from a glossy catalog last month. Took me ages to pick out my favorites, and they’ve sold like hot cakes ever since.
My knees hit the polka dot rug, and the man’s eyebrows bounce up his forehead. Heat crawls over my cheeks, and I know how it looks, but I’m kneeling for first aid reasons. That’s all. “They’re hand-tooled Italian leather. Now let me see.”
A faint coppery scent fills the air when he shifts, peeling his coat open wider—the wound’s just above his hip on one side, the blood turning his dark shirt the color of tar. The sticky fabric clings to his body like a second skin, and I breathe through my mouth as I fumble the first aid kit open.
“Hey.”
I glance up, but he’s not talking to me. He fires off rapid instructions in Italian to the person on the phone, his stormy gray eyes never leaving my face, and my stomach swoops under the force of his gaze.
Definitely mob.
I frown at the stranger. He smirks.
Then he hangs up, and the motion of tossing the phone to the rug makes him stiffen again, cursing under his breath. Sweat beads his forehead, and his lips look way too pale.
Oh, hell no. This mobster is not dying in the kids’ reading area. Such bad vibes.
Rocking back on my heels, I slap my thighs. There are goosebumps beneath my black tights, but I blame the cold. “I have vodka upstairs.”
That helps with pain, right? And with cleaning a wound? That’s what they use in the movies, anyway. I may have lived my whole life before now through books and other stories, but at least I’ve learned a thing or two.
