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"Just wait until you see me work my magic."
The cab of the truck resonates with a soothing melody, enveloping us as we peacefully traverse the snowy Boston streets in the midst of winter. The weather mirrors the season's starkness, with a cold, dreary, and snow-covered landscape outside.
As we approach the bookstore, Lincoln's exceptional parallel parking skills shine, deftly maneuvering the truck into a spot right in front of the shop. I can't help but marvel at his finesse; had I been behind the wheel, I'd have probably scraped the curb or, worst-case scenario, bumped the car behind us.
Before I can fully process what's happening, Lincoln beats me to the punch, darting out of the driver's seat and swinging open my door. His hand extends, a guiding gesture that keeps my feet clear of the slushy, snow-laden curb.
After locking his trusty truck, he sweeps me inside the bookstore's warm embrace. The shift from the biting cold to the cozy interior is palpable as I inhale deeply, relishing the sensation of returning to one of my cherished sanctuaries.
Our hands remain entwined as Lincoln guides me toward the rear of the store, where Mrs. Rose meticulously rearranges a shelf. We come to a halt a couple of feet away from her, and her gasp of surprise upon seeing Lincoln is unmistakable.
She sets the book in her hand down and hurries toward him, enfolding Lincoln in what can only be described as a delightful grandmotherly embrace. After a brief, affectionate squeeze, she steps back and utters, "It's been too long! I'm so happy you stopped by; I've got some books waiting for you that I'm sure you'll enjoy."
As Lincoln begins to respond, Mrs. Rose's eyes fall upon me, standing by his side. Her expression sours, and she abruptly cuts off whatever Lincoln was about to say. "No, no. You're not allowed here any longer, young lady," she scolds, wagging her finger in my direction as if I were a wayward child.
Lincoln, sensing my unease, discreetly slides his hand back into mine and provides a reassuring squeeze. With a warm smile, he interjects, "She's with me, Mrs. Rose. I promise you, whatever happened in the past, it wasn't her fault."
Mrs. Rose scrutinizes me with suspicion. "That friend of yours has quite a dirty mouth on her," she observes, her tone laced with disapproval. She hesitates for a moment, exchanging silent glances with Lincoln, before finally exhaling and conceding, "Okay, okay. You are allowed back, but just you."
A rush of gratitude washes over me, and I blush with relief. "Thank you, thank you. I promise I'll be good."
Mrs. Rose then turns her attention to Lincoln and makes a surprising suggestion, "You should take her upstairs." The shock on Lincoln's face is evident, and he stammers, "Really?"
"Of course," Mrs. Rose responds, her face lighting up with a genuine smile aimed at me, the first such smile I've seen since our arrival.
As Lincoln leads me towards the back of the store, he guides us with the confidence of someone who has done this countless times before, or so it seems. It dawns on me that there might be many things I don't know about him; he's not much of a divulger unless I prompt him with questions.
We arrive at a secluded, dusty corner tucked away in the back of the store, concealed by a bookcase that easily shifts to the side. A breathtaking tile staircase adorned with pastel hues reveals itself as the bookcase moves, and I take a moment to appreciate the beautiful colors as Lincoln leads me up the stairs. As we round a small corner, a surprising sight unfolds before me—a tiny yet surprisingly spacious loft.
My disbelief can't be contained, and I exclaim, "There's an actual loft."
Lincoln grins, his eyes twinkling with pride. "Pretty sick, right?"
"I can't believe she lets you come up here," I admit, my astonishment evident in my voice.
"Why not? I'm such a dear. You don't think I deserve these privileges?" Lincoln teases, but his playfulness does little to soothe my insecurity.
I nervously glance up at him, unable to help myself from asking, "Have you shared these privileges with anyone else?" My insecurity shines through in the question.
Without hesitation, Lincoln reassures me, "No. Only you."
A sense of warmth and relief washes over me. "Then you definitely deserve it. Although, I don't think you appreciate how beautiful it is up here."
"Huh. I just noticed," he admits, turning to look directly at me.
With a gentle tug, he urges me to come closer, and I follow his lead without hesitation. At this moment, I don't care how it might appear; I'm too awestruck.
Lincoln settles into a giant cream-colored beanbag, and he guides me to sit between his spread legs, my back resting against his front. I wiggle around until I'm comfortable, and Lincoln adjusts his position to match mine, creating a comforting and intimate cocoon.
Lincoln leans down, reaching into my purse. He retrieves my favorite book and grabs another from the nearby table. I glance at the title of the book he's picked up, assuming it's his current read.
"You come here a lot," I remark, not really expecting an answer but still hoping to hear his thoughts.
He pushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear as he replies, "All the time. It helps me unwind in a way nothing else can."
I tease him gently, "For someone who's dedicated his life to such a violent sport, you have surprisingly leisurely pastimes."
With a soft laugh, Lincoln confesses, "My mom says the same exact thing."
