And I’m having a crisis. Because this isn’t how attraction works for me—I desire people I feel close to, connected with. Who I like. I don’t like Jonathan.
But is liking really what you need? the devil on my shoulder whispers. Or is it closeness? A bond? You are bonded with him, aren’t you?
More like trapped, the angel on my other side reminds me. Tangled. Ensnared. These are not good things.
The angel’s right, but the devil’s not wrong either. Jonathan and I are bonded. Yes, it’s a twisty bond, united in our love of the bookstore but divided by how to manage it, opposite personalities who can’t stand each other yet in many ways know each other inside out, but that doesn’t make it any less of a bond. And, God, the sheer absurd amount of time we’ve spent together, just the two of us in the bookshop, bickering and provoking each other. How many hours did Jonathan say it was? Over two thousand?
That’s a lot. Too much. It’s clearly getting to me, tricking my body into fantasizing about the last thing I should want from someone who I cannot stand.
There’s a reason you’re fantasizing about him, the devil whispers. Don’t you want to figure that out?
The angel tsks primly, shaking her head. She used to fantasize about Mr. Reddit. That’s who she’s supposed to fantasize about—
“Argh!” I throw up my hands and stomp down the sidewalk. I don’t have time for these angel-devil debates. I don’t even have time to get myself a peppermint hot cocoa. Which means my routine is off, I’m hungry and sugar-deprived, and I’m sorely lacking in seasonal beverage goodness.
Just as my mood is really heading south, my headphones start to play a jazzy version of “Sleigh Ride” sung by Ella Fitzgerald （of course）， and I can’t help but smile just a little, the sudden happiness the music brings reminding me how I started this walk to work: committed to staying positive. So I pep-talk myself as I wrap up my walk to the store. Today is going to be better! Work is going to be great! The bookshop is decorated beautifully for the holidays; I have a whole month of fun, festive activities to draw crowds, sell books, and spread cheer. And no traumatically sexual dream about Jonathan Frost in skin-tight breeches is going to bring me down.
Opening the door to the bookshop, which is unlocked like it always is because Jonathan’s always there first, I feel a surge of joy as I drink in the space.
Polished, glowing wood floors and columns, built-in bookshelves, every gorgeous beam curved along the vaulted ceilings. Row after colorful row of book spines filling shelves and stacked on wood tables, a treasure chest of bookish gems. The gas fireplace dances with cheery flames beneath the mantel, which I decorated with oversized jewel-tone ornaments, glittering fake snow, and soft pine boughs. All across the ceiling hang my homemade sparkling papier maché and clay baked decorations that honor the winter holidays, swirls of white, gold, and silver ribbon threaded among them and reflecting the morning light like sunrise mirrored on a frozen pond.
The sight before me, the comforting smell of books mingling with fresh-cut evergreens, wraps me in a blanket of festive bliss.
Which is why it hurts all the worse when I’m hit with a one-two punch of recognition and dread. It’s not Jonathan Frost and his arctic glare greeting me, reminding me I’m three minutes late. It’s the Baileys, smiling warmly. The owners. Who are rarely here, and never first thing in the morning.
“Morning, dear!” Mrs. Bailey calls from the far end of the store.
Mr. Bailey strolls my way on a soft smile and waves me in. “Come in, Gabby.”
He’s wearing a cheery matching plaid bow tie and suspenders that coordinate with Mrs. Bailey’s skirt. They’re so precious, it makes a lump form in my throat. These people matter to me—their store and this job matter to me. And something’s wrong. I know it.
Rounding the large central display table, Mrs. Bailey wraps me in a hug. “Happy holidays, dear! The store looks gorgeous…” She pulls back, examining me as I try to smile back at her. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Her smile falters a little. “Oh, Gabby, don’t worry. It’s just a little business chat. Everything will be fine.”
Mr. Bailey rubs his forehead and mutters to himself, “Just a little business chat.”
“Relax, George. Don’t get your suspenders in a twist.” Mrs. Bailey pats him gently on the arm, then turns back to me. “Gabby, go ahead and get unbundled there, then let’s have a seat around the table in the back room. Jonathan just called and said he’ll be here in a minute.”