Sometimes in those unspoken moments, things like this happen. My mind wipes away fifty-two weeks of daily squabbles and petty power battles and takes an inexplicable turn, like fixating on his forearms, staring at his hands as they slip and rub under the water. And then I start to think about other times arms flex and hands get wet. I think about fingers curling, and now his thumb’s circling a splotch of ink on his palm, and I’m thinking about his thumb circling other things and—
“Twelve months.” His voice thunder-cracks through the air, and I straighten like lightning just zapped my spine. “Fifty-two weeks. Six days a week. Eight hours each day. Two thousand four hundred and ninety-six hours.” Eyes on his task, he flicks off the water, frees a paper towel from the stand with a vicious rip, then dries his hands. “Believe it or not, I’ve picked up a few things along the way.”
Steeling myself, I fold my arms across my chest. “I see. ‘Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’ Isn’t that the saying?”
Jonathan glances up and meets my eyes, his gaze speaking some cryptic language that I don’t.
I hate that feeling. It’s old and familiar, and it never fails to scrape open the scab of my social struggles. I’m a neurodivergent girl in a neurotypical world, and my autistic brain doesn’t read people the way Jonathan Tactical-Mastermind Frost’s does. It’s one of the very first things that made me dislike him: I can feel his cunning, his cold, calculating mind. He has what I don’t, he sees what I can’t, and he wields those weapons ruthlessly. It’s exactly why the Baileys hired him.
Because he’s everything I’m not.
And in my worst moments, that makes me feel like I’m not enough.
I wanted to be everything the Baileys needed when Mrs. Bailey retired from managing and they promoted me. The Baileys wanted that, too. They love me. They love how I love the bookshop. And their bottom line would certainly be healthier with only one manager in this day and age that’s swiftly killing independent bookstores.
But after my first year solo, seeing I was drowning in the deluge of managerial tasks, the Baileys sat me down over tea and said it was too much to ask of one person—I deserved a co-manager.
So Jonathan was hired, exactly one year ago today. Bursting with holiday excitement, I walked in, only to see him chumming it up with Mr. Bailey, a rosy pink in Mrs. Bailey’s cheeks as he said something that made her smile. I’d been usurped. It hit me like a snowball to the solar plexus.
He’s been here ever since, making the Baileys fall in love with him, proving himself indispensable. He’s confident and coolly efficient, and after a year under his influence, Bailey’s Bookshop runs like a well-oiled machine.
Jonathan’s the brain of this place. I admit that.
But me? I’m the soul.
I’m the whimsical touches in the window display, the thoughtful addition of plush armchairs tucked into cozy corners. I’m the warm smile that welcomes you and the artful front display table that draws you in. And Jonathan knows it. He knows that without me, this place would be industrious but impersonal, tidy but tedious.
In short: he needs me just as badly as I need him.
I realize that sounds like a great reason to join forces and set aside differences. But since The Dreaded Chain Bookstore （also known as Potter’s Pages） came into the neighborhood two years ago and our profits took a hit, I know it’s only a matter of time until the Baileys break the news that they can no longer afford both of us. And like hell am I going to have surrendered my place, to have allowed Jonathan Frost to become the dominant force that makes the Baileys’ choice between us a no-brainer.
Meaning, that while our feud might have started out as a clash of personalities, it’s now a duel to the death.
Er. Professional death, that is.
A drip of water from the faucet falls with a plink, wrenching my mind from its meandering path.
I realize I’ve been staring at Jonathan.
And Jonathan’s been staring back.
Apparently, we’ve been doing this for some time, judging by the way the world starts to blur and my eyes scream for me to blink.
Jonathan, of course, because he’s made of some cryogenic alien substance, looks entirely at ease as he leans in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He could do this all day. Blinking is for the weak.
Unable to ignore my eyeballs’ plea for mercy, I spin toward the massive floral arrangement and blink rapidly, barely choking back a relieved whimper as I pivot the vase and inspect it. That’s when I spot a small card wedged inside the blossoms. I’ve been so frazzled by Jonathan, I forgot to look for the note explaining who this is from.