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I’m so stressed my stomach hurts as the woman shows me around the shop. She never asked if I finished school. She assumed it, probably. I mean, what person working in a bookshop doesn’t have a GED?
Me, apparently.
It’s not like I can’t read or anything. I can. Write, too, and I’m pretty good at math. And I love stories, provided they’re in a form other than written.
Still. I know drinks, fist fights and dark places so much better than books.
I wish Candy were here already. The memory of her smile that day at the concert is calming. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her again ever since, though it took a lot of agonizing to decide to apply for the job.
The woman—Donna Foster, manager of the shop—is friendly, and the job
doesn’t seem too hard. Apparently I don’t need a PhD to do it, thank fuck. She says people may ask for recommendations, though, for books to buy.
“Do you read a lot? From your resume it wasn’t obvious, and when I asked you on the phone, your answer was vague.”
“I like books.” Hey, they’re pretty things, often with nice drawings inside.
“That was exactly what you said.” She sends me a shrewd look. “If you don’t read much, Jethro, it’s not a problem, really. As long as you’re hard-working and polite to me, Candy and our customers, I’m happy. As for recommendations, you can do a few searches, check what genres we sell, check online and see the bestsellers in those categories. Be resourceful. We mainly want to sell books. It’s a business like any other. Now if you like reading books…” She grins, and I like this woman more and more. “Then it’s a bonus for you, because you may enjoy yourself more and read books when there are no customers around. Also we give discounts to our employees.”
She’s being candid. And nice. I owe her the truth. Well, part of it.
“I don’t read much. But I am good at organizing things, and good at selling things. I will work hard, Ms. Foster.”
“Please call me Donna.” She nods. “I appreciate the honesty. I hope you will like it here.”
“Me too,” I tell her truthfully, and man, I hope I will remember not to drop any f-bombs while at work. It was never a problem when working at a bar, but in a bookshop I have a feeling things are kinda different.
The door chimes and I turn around.
“Morning, Donna!” a bright voice calls, and I see a halo of blond hair and a curvy form. “I bring coffee and—”
She stops dead, staring at me.
I grin and wave.
“Oh my God!” Her face is prettier than I remember, her smile blinding, although she’s wearing… glasses? “Don’t tell me. Oh crap, Donna, is this the new employee?”
“He sure is!” Donna winks, and I see no trace of that earlier discomfort I sensed when she found out I knew Candy. “Jethro tells me you’ve met already.”
“Jethro. Oh my frigging God.” Now Candy goes pale, stopping in her tracks. The blood drains from her face so fast, I’m rushing toward her before I even realize I’m doing it.
“Sit.” I grab the coffees from her hands, plonk them on a nearby table, wrap my arm around her waist and drag her to the armchair on the side. “I’ll get you your coffee. You need sugar.”
“I’m fine,” she protests, but I ignore that. Obviously something’s wrong, and I’m gonna find out what it is. Can’t stand the way my vision goes black at the edges when she’s like this.
As if I can feel her distress inside myself.
I check the names on the Styrofoam cups and hand her the right one, then turn to give the other to Donna—but she’s not there. I faintly make out her form through the glass door of her small office.
Huh. What the hell am I missing here?
Leaving the cup on the table, I hunch down in front of Candy, wrap my hands over hers where they’re gripping the cup. “Talk to me.”
She shakes her head, a blond strand falling over her eyes.
“Come on, maybe I can help. You made this happen, got me a job. Let me in.”
“You made this happen,” she whispers, and why are her eyes so damn wide? It looks like shock, but damn if they aren’t doing great things for my dick that’s hard as a rock already from seeing her, smelling her. Touching her. “Not me.”
