My mind feels less like it’s spinning than like it’s spinning fifteen plates that are on fire. “This is Dusty we’re talking about. Shy, gentle Dusty, who’s used to Sharon’s soothing, optimistic demeanor. And you, who—no offense—are about as delicate as an antique pickax.”
His jaw muscles flex. “I know I don’t have the best bedside manner. But I’m good at my job. I can do this. And you can get Dusty on board. The publisher doesn’t want to bump back the release date. We need to push this thing through, no delays.”
“It’s not my decision.”
“Dusty will listen to you,” Charlie says. “You could sell snake oil to a snake oil salesman.”
“I’m not sure that’s how the saying goes.”
“I had to revise it to accurately reflect how good you are at your job.”
My cheeks are on fire, less from the compliment than from a sudden vivid memory of Charlie’s mouth. The part where he staggered back from me like I’d shot him quickly follows.
I swallow. “I’ll talk to her. That’s all I can do.” By habit, I’ve unthinkingly flipped to the last page of Once. Now I thumb to the acknowledgments, letting my muscles relax at the sight of my name. It’s proof—that I am good at my job, that even if I can’t control everything, there’s a lot I can strong-arm into shape.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing here anyway, and how long do you have until the sunlight makes you burst into flames?”
Charlie folds his forearms on the counter. “Can you keep a secret, Stephens?”
“Ask me who shot JFK,” I say, adopting his own deadpan tone.
His eyes narrow. “Far more interested in how you got that information.”
“That one Stephen King book,” I reply. “Now, who are we keeping secrets from?”
He considers, teeth running over his full bottom lip. It’s borderline lewd, but no worse than what’s happening in my body right now.
“Loggia Publishing,” he replies.
“Okay.” I consider. “I can keep a secret from Loggia, if you make it juicy.”
He leans in closer. I follow suit. His whisper is so quiet I almost have to press my ear to his mouth to hear it: “I work here.”
“You . . . work . . . here?” I straighten up, blinking clear of the haze of his warm scent.
“I work here,” he repeats, turning his laptop to reveal a PDF of a manuscript, “while I’m technically working there.”
“Is that legal?” I ask. Two full-time jobs happening simultaneously seems like it might actually add up to two part-time jobs.
Charlie drags a hand down his face as he sighs exhaustedly. “It’s inadvisable. But my parents own this place, and they needed help, so I’ve been running the shop for a few months while editing remotely.”
He swipes the book off the counter. “You really buying this?”
“I like to support local businesses.”
“Goode Books isn’t so much a local business as it is a financial sinkhole, but I’m sure the tunnel inside the earth appreciates your money.”
“Excuse me,” I say, “did you just say this place is called Goode Books? As in your mother’s last name, but also good book?”
“City people,” he tuts. “Never stop to smell the roses, or look up to see the very prominently displayed signs over local businesses.”
I wave a hand. “Oh, I have the time. It’s just that the Botox in my neck makes it hard to get my chin that high.”
“I’ve never met someone who is both so vain and so practical,” he says, sounding just barely awed.
“Which will be what actually goes on my headstone.”
“What a shame,” he says, “to waste all that on a pig farmer.”
“You’re really hung up on the pig farmer,” I say. “Whereas Libby won’t be satisfied with me dating anyone but a widowed single father who rejected a country music career to run a bed-and-breakfast.”
He says, “So you’ve met Randy.”
I burst out laughing, and the corner of his mouth ticks.
Oh, shit. It is a smile. He’s pleased to have made me laugh. Which makes my blood feel like maple syrup. And I hate maple syrup.
I take a half step back, a physical boundary to accompany the mental one I’m trying to rebuild. “Anyway, I heard a rumor you’re hoarding the entire city’s internet here.”
“You should never believe a small-town rumor, Nora,” he chides.