“I heard you the first time,” I mutter as I shove the mop and bucket out of the elevator and onto our main floor.
A man catches me before I get too far. He’s older, maybe fifty. “Do you have any books on . . . erotica?” he asks as he blushes. “It’s for . . . a friend.”
If Babs were here, she’d clasp his hand in hers, gush over her favs, and skip with him to the sexy books. I smile. “Sure. Second floor, on the right. You can’t miss it.”
I turn back to the bucket, and instead of bending over to push it, I shove it with one of my heels. The motion causes the wooden handle of the mop to whip back and bang my nose. Tears burst from my eyes at the pain. The inconvenience of not having a cleaning person ratchets up, and I curse vividly.
Babs dashes over. “You move like a tortoise. Why are you trying to break your face? You splashed water out on the floor.”
“You try rolling this thing. It’s heavy, and one of the wheels is wonky.” I wring out the mop and rub it over the spilled water. “There.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Our maintenance person didn’t show. Guess who’s going to be here all night, cleaning? Me and you.” I push the pail forward, this time by the mop handle. She keeps pace with me as we reach the condiment area. “Where’s the creamer? You didn’t mean the cream soda, did you?”
“There’s no spilled creamer,” she hisses. “Is that why you’re dragging around this mop bucket like a bedraggled waif?”
Only booklovers use words like “bedraggled” and “waif.”
“Babs. What’s going on? Why are your eyes darting to the left?”
“Mr. Hottie in the cream suit is here. Remember? I told you all about him when you got back from your vacay. He’s near the window. Don’t you dare look, or he’ll know we’re talking about him, and it’s bad enough that you’re pushing a mop.” She gives me an exasperated look. “What am I going to do with you?”
“The PA system isn’t your personal alert system for good-looking guys.”
“It is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Whatever. Pretty soon it won’t even matter because we’re closing for good. It’s him. The one who asked for you.”
“Jeez, stop hissing,” I say. “I understood you the first time. He’s the man who came by, and boy was he hot, blah, blah, blah. Where is he?”
Her eyes roll so hard I think for a moment her fake lashes might flop off. “I already told you. He’s near the display. He asked for you to serve his tea.”
A snort comes from me. I enjoy reading Jane Austen, but I don’t pour your tea, my lord. “The nerve. I’m not a waitress. At least not here.”
“Okay, well, he didn’t really say, ‘Tell her to serve my tea,’ maybe I sort of added that part because it sounded exciting, but Emmy! He’s interested in you. I’m telling you: there’s a gleam in his gorgeous gray eyes, and—”
“Wait. Gray? Like storm clouds?”
“More like the polished silver of a spoon. The man is dripping in sex pheromones and money. Not that you’re a gold digger, but, well, you are in a precarious sitch right now,” she says, then winces. “I may have mentioned some things about you to him, so forgive me in advance, but you’re my bestie and I knew your gran, and the truth is she’d want what I want, which is something wonderful in your life and someone—”
“Stop. What did you tell him?”
Her eyes flare, and her nose twitches like a rabbit’s. She takes a bite of the scone in her hands. “I just told him how sweet you are, which isn’t true today. I also told him you’re looking for love.”
“Babs! I am not! I have other things to worry about.”
Her shoulders slump. “I know. Everything is falling apart. The store is closing. Anyway. He’s waiting for you. Fix yourself and leave the mop bucket in the corner.”
Magic twines between my legs and gives me an Are you okay? look. Yes, sweet cat, something is indeed brewing in the air, and it’s not tea but an arrogant jerk who thinks I’d marry him because I took his car to the airport, and then it got stolen. And yes, I feel enormous guilt and remorse for taking his Lambo, but marriage? Never.
Holding the pastry in one hand, Babs scoops Magic up with the other and snuggles him. He seems to adore her and Terry and the rest of the staff.
“I’ll feed the Prince of Darkness. You go see him—oh, and there’s a woman with him, which I can’t quite figure out, so there’s that.”
I’m muttering as I straighten my dress and head to the front area of the bookstore. I glance in a mirror on the wall, and sure enough, my nose looks like Rudolph. Merry Christmas.
There he is, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine, wearing a fitted long-sleeved pale-blue shirt and slim navy slacks. Dark hair is swept off his face, and his inviting lips are currently smiling at his companion. Combined with his broad shoulders and a chest that tapers to a trim waist, he’s gorgeous.
He sits at a table with a petite brunette in a yellow dress with her hair swept up on each side with gold barrettes.
Pretty snazzy for a weekday.
Babs slides in next to me, vibrating with excitement. She must have fed Magic in record time. “Act nonchalant,” she tells me. “Don’t run him off with your ‘romance only works in books’ spiel.”
I inhale a deep breath, steeling myself. “Guess that’s his other possible fake wife . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“So you know him? He isn’t a stranger?”
“Graham Harlan, football star, mega wealthy, possible mafia or international art thief on the side.”
“What?”
“Kidding. That’s just my imagination.”
Graham must feel the heat of my stare. He glances over at me and quirks one of his eyebrows. Well, it seems to say. Fancy seeing you here. Come meet your competition.
I feel a blush rising up my cheeks. At least I put on makeup today: total skin coverage, plus winged eyeliner and crimson lips. And my dress is hot. A little too short. A little too tight. Just perfect.
Maybe a tiny part of me hoped he’d stop by the bookstore. Pfft. I don’t need a love interest, not that that even matters, since he’s only proposing a marriage of convenience.
I approach the table, intent on keeping a smile plastered on my face.
He watches me with lowered lids, as if trying to make sense of my movements, my expressions, my feelings. His eyes brush over my hair, taking in the messy bun, the wisps that linger around my cheeks, and when he ends on my lips, my smile falters.
His gaze is so heavy and intimate that I almost forget to breathe.
His stare needs to be outlawed.
When he sees the coffee stain on my chest, everything inside me itches to grab a napkin off a table and wipe at it, but I hold back the urge, my heart thumping a little too fast for my taste.
Why is the air more alive around him? Crisper?