“Look at that window,” a little girl gasps as she points it out to her mom.
“We feature romance in May,” I explain with a wave. “You should see us at Christmas. Last year we did rabbits hosting a winter tea party for the forest. Come see us!”
They’ve already gone, but satisfaction lingers. Of course we aren’t as famous as some of the other displays in New York—at Bergdorf Goodman, Macy’s, or Bloomingdale’s—but we’re getting there.
The bookstore is my bright star that never dims. Built over a hundred years ago, the four-story building used to be a dance hall. There’s even a gold plaque inlaid in the bricks that says MYRON’S JAZZ CLUB, 1920.
“What the hell?” comes from me at seeing the A LIKELY STORY WILL BE CLOSING SOON sign posted on the double oak doors. Sure, I took two weeks off, my usual summer vacation, and I knew Terry had the store for sale, but he would have told me if he’d found a buyer.
I shove inside, the bell jangling. I enter the marble-tiled rotunda and rush past book displays and cozy seating areas. The air is thick with the smell of coffee, warm croissants, and ink. The comforting buzz of conversation between customers and staff reaches my ears. Normally, I’d stop to chat with the regulars or tinker with the display, but I stride to the main counter, where Babs, the assistant manager, waits.
Petite, she’s in her late fifties, with red hair in a stylish blunt cut. Her makeup is expertly applied, with sweeping eyeliner and thick false lashes. Her chin quivers when she sees me.
“What’s with the sign? Is this a joke?” I ask.
“Oh, Emmy! Thank God you’re back. As for the sign, ask the jerk in his office. He’s the one who put it up this morning.” She bursts into tears as I fumble around the counter to find a tissue. There’s not a box, so I grab a wad of napkins from the coffee station.
“I swear to God, I hate Terry. I’m tempted to get a knife and”—she grabs one of the stir sticks for coffees and bares her teeth—“march in there and cut his balls off.”
“Whoa, there’s no need for cock cutting.” I remove the stick as a customer walks by the counter and gives us the side-eye. He asks where the used books are, and I point to the beautiful wrought iron spiral staircase and explain they’re on the third floor.
“But he hasn’t given us any warning,” Babs wails after he’s gone. “I love the smell of books, the feel of a hardcover in my hands. I can’t exist without this job!”
I need this job as well. I’ve worked here for years, first as a barista, then as a manager.
“Who did he sell to?”
She dabs at her eyes. “I’m not sure, but a man came in about a week ago, in a divine suit. It was a summer style, maybe linen or something, and a cream color. Can you imagine it? Cream. Few men can carry that off. Anyway, he sauntered in like he owned the place. He looked like a movie star, Emmy.” Her eyes glaze over, and I nudge her.
“Did he buy it?”
“I don’t know but thought I should mention it, because he asked if you were working, and when I said no, he asked to see Terry. Weird, right?”
I frown. I hadn’t even realized Terry was back from his fishing trip. Even when he is in town, he only comes in maybe twice a week. “Did he know Terry, or was he just asking to see the owner?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t put much thought into it at the time. Your name is on the door as the manager, so the mystery man probably wasn’t looking for you specifically.”
He could have been a rep from one of the publishers.
Or a detective with a sense of style. Ugh.
She sniffs. “Anyway, he might be a potential boyfriend, you know, since you and Kian are kaput.”
“Nope. Men suck.”
She completely ignores me. “I’m finding you a guy.”
“God, no, please.” Before Kian, she introduced me to three nephews, a couple of cousins, and her own son.
“I’m never fucking Terry again, that’s for sure. Never.” Her voice rises, and I take her arm and steer her toward the kitchen before the customers overhear.
Her shoulders dip. “That’s a lie. I’m weak willed; you know this. I love the feel of warm skin, dirty talk . . .” She whimpers. “And Terry knows how to work it. Ever since his hip replacement surgery, he’s got this swivel thing—”
An image of Babs and a sixty-year-old Terry going at it threatens, and I interrupt her by clearing my throat.
“I guess I could be one of those professional cuddlers. I hear they get fifty bucks an hour, plus the dopamine your brain releases. It’s like free drugs, but I’d be worried I’d get horny; then I’d have to booty-call Terry, and girl, his D is capital D for delicious—”