There was also a bookstore, as Elizabeth had suggested, and the name made him laugh. Moore Books. Twenty dollars said the owner’s last name was Moore, and what a quaint but understated pun. It was a proper ramshackle bookstore too, the towering, overcrowded shelves visible through the tall antique windows. As Rasul approached, he saw that though it was clearly a historic building, the stairs had been replaced with a sloping ramp to the side with a reasonable gradient.
Rasul ascended the ramp and pushed open the door, his heart sighing with a sense of rightness as a slightly discordant bell announced his arrival and the scent of old paper hit him in the face. The floors creaked too, a well-polished but ancient hardwood, and the ceiling above him was made out of legitimate tin. The shelves were packed with books, but they were well-organized and clearly labeled. A small front-facing shelf boasted new releases, but also store favorites and local interest titles.
Both of Rasul’s books were included, with prominence, in the store favorites section.
Only a handful of patrons were visible in the maze of shelving, and the few in his line of sight barely spared him a glance before resuming browsing. The middle-aged woman in one of the armchairs near the front window regarded him slightly longer, but even she soon returned to her own business.
This bookstore, Rasul decided, feeling the truth ring in his soul, was a good place.
“Hi. Welcome to Moore Books. Can I help you find anything?”
Rasul turned to the speaker, a white man about his age wearing a button-down blue shirt and a tan cardigan. Except for his light brown hair, he looked like a young Fred Rogers, down to the navy sneakers.
“Just browsing, thanks.” Rasul ran a hand through his hair and tugged at his ponytail. “Nice store.”
Mr. Rogers’s doppelgänger brightened slightly. “Thank you. I’ll let you wander around, but if you decide you need any assistance, find me at the checkout desk.”
The man turned and disappeared into the stacks. Rasul watched him go.
He certainly acted like the owner, but if this was who’d listed both of Rasul’s books as his favorites, he’d given no indication he knew who Rasul was.
Whatever. He was grateful for the privacy, however he got there.
Rasul wandered, taking everything in. The whole first floor was fiction, broken into genre: general fiction, mystery, science fiction/fantasy, romance, horror/thriller. It was a large area, both in width and length, running all the way to the back of the building. The upstairs, however—accessible via some deliciously creaking and curving stairs or a sleek, modern elevator—was all nonfiction and children’s books. The children’s area was charming and quite full of people. Another large recommendation area was on full display here, though these suggested reads were provided by the town’s librarian.
There were also two cats, a prim gray tabby with a white tuxedo belly, judging Rasul severely as he passed by its perch on top of a low shelf in the general fiction section, and a longhair gray tortoiseshell nested in the middle of an educational toys display upstairs. He also encountered a teenager in a store apron shelving titles, and when she saw him, she squealed and dropped everything in her hands.
“Ohmygod, you’re Rasul Youssef.”
He smiled his patented smile for fans: welcoming, charming, but not exceptionally inviting. “Hi. Sorry to make you drop your things. Can I help you—”
But she’d already run off, disappearing into an area marked STAFF ONLY.
Rasul picked up the books from the floor, slid them into the appropriate places on the shelf, and gave the cat a hesitant pat. The cat meowed at him, rubbed his hand, and burrowed back into the toys.
After this Rasul meandered to the first floor again, trying to decide what he wanted to browse first. The general fiction section mostly gave him angst at the moment, so he wandered into the genre shelves. He lingered over a book by Lois McMaster Bujold he hadn’t even known was out, set it aside to purchase, and picked up another title by an author he hadn’t heard of. He was leafing through it when Mr. Rogers reappeared, smiling in that helpful way bookstore owners had.
Rasul waved the book in the air between them. “You read this one, or hear about it? Any good?”
Rogers came over, focusing on the cover, then brightening. “Oh, yes. It’s excellent. Highly thought-provoking, but not at all heavy. I believe they were nominated for a Hugo.”
Good enough for him. Rasul put the book on his pile. “Any other recs?”
“Of course. Are you looking exclusively for science fiction and fantasy?”
“No, no. Thought-provoking but still fun and in no way pedantic is the mood I’m here for.”
“Hmm.” Rogers tapped a finger against his lips as he perused the shelves. “How about Here and Now and Then? Have you read Chen yet?”
Rasul hadn’t. “What’s it about?”
“Oh, it’s excellent. A time-traveling secret agent struggling to maintain a relationship with his daughter gets stranded in the past for eighteen years, though when his rescue team comes, he finds out it’s only been a few weeks in his proper timeline. And also he can’t remember his family.”
Rasul’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds perfect.”
“From what I know of your tastes, and given what you said you were after, I think it will fit the bill perfectly.”
So the man did know who he was, but he was playing it cool. God, Rasul wanted to live in this bookshop.
He did a quick perusal of the man beside him once again, but nothing lit up. Mr. Rogers chic just didn’t do it for Rasul.
The man missed Rasul’s cruise, too busy wandering to the opposite shelves. “Hmm. Please don’t be offended by my question, but have you read I Capture the Castle?”
Rasul’s heart instantly filled with longing. “Forty-five times, I think, but back when I was young. Put it on the pile. It’s time for a reread.” It would smart a little to have too much in common with James Mortmain, but perhaps that would be good for him.
Good God, was that why Mr. Rogers recommended it?
Before he could figure out how to ask, the bookseller had another volume, this one taken from the manga section Rasul had somehow completely overlooked. “This is a bit off the beaten path, but I honestly think you’d like My Brother’s Husband. I have both volume one and two in stock, but feel free to start with the first one to see if I guessed right or not.”
“You picked up my favorite childhood novel. I trust your judgment. Put both on.”
Rogers nodded. “I’ll keep these at the front desk and wait for you when you’re finished shopping.”
Rasul lingered with the manga, picking up some volumes of series he’d forgotten to finish and starting another pile nearly as big as the one Mr. Rogers had taken away. This was going to get expensive, but he would rather eat ramen than have nothing to read. Plus this entire bookstore felt like church for authors. This was practically writing, shopping here.
He was pondering whether he could afford to buy the entire Fullmetal Alchemist series when a commotion at the front of the store drew his attention. The bell jangled constant peals of warning as the sound of many feet and an eerie chorus of feminine giggles filled the bookstore.
“Oh my God, do you think he’s still here?”
“I’m gonna get my picture with him.”
“I’m gonna make him sign my chest.”
“Sick. Get him to sign your tit and I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
Rasul’s stomach plummeted to his feet as he scanned frantically for an emergency exit. No question but this crew was here for him. The next thing he heard froze him cold, however.
“Don’t forget to tag Adina so we get the shout-out.”
No way. No way, this couldn’t be happening, not when Elizabeth had just handed him his ass.
Before he could spiral into a deeper wave of panic, Mr. Rogers appeared. He no longer looked like a demure children’s show host, however. His lips were in a thin line, and it was clear someone was about to ge
t an earful.
Rogers nodded curtly to the front of the store. “My apologies, Mr. Youssef. It seems some young people in Copper Point don’t know how to behave. With your permission, I’ll help you leave the store undetected.”
Though Rasul nodded in relief, he also cast a sad glance of longing at his books.
Rogers swept them up at once. “I’ll get your books for you. Come, follow me up these back stairs. The first-floor rear door is alarmed, but I live above the shop and have my own entrance.” Rogers was already unlocking an unassuming green door with a sign reading PRIVATE, KEEP OUT. The door also had a small cat door at the bottom.
Once Rogers had the door open, he ushered Rasul ahead of him. “Up the stairs and to the right. I’ll take you out through the kitchen and get you to your car.”
“I don’t have a car—” Rasul broke off and swore as he tripped over something on the stairs. It yowled. A black cat swiped at his leg, then darted up the stairs and into the shadows.
Rogers sighed. “Moriarty likes to hide on the top stair. I swear one day he’ll be the death of me.”
He named his cat Moriarty. Rasul considered reevaluating his rescuer’s hotness potential once again, but then he remembered the sweater. Nope.
Rogers led Rasul into the kitchen, sat him down, and pulled up his pant leg with the no-nonsense composure of a kindergarten teacher. “I’m so sorry, he drew blood. He’s had all his shots, though. Let me get you some disinfectant.” He hurried away before Rasul could say anything, then returned with a tidy plastic box full of first-aid supplies, which he set down beside Rasul. “I’m going to run downstairs quick and sort things out. Please make yourself at home. There are glasses in the cupboard, as well as mugs for tea. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Without waiting for Rasul to say a word, Rogers was gone.
After staring for several seconds at the place where the bookseller had disappeared, Rasul fished through the first-aid kit, put some alcohol on a pad, and cleaned the cut with a soft hiss. After he put a bandage on the cut, he collected his garbage and stood to search for a trash can.
The apartment was the complete opposite of Rasul’s. It overflowed with things in a way that made Rasul feel comforted and safe while also being absolutely neat and clean. As he wandered from room to room, he saw the whole place was much like the main body of the bookstore, old but well-maintained and in several aspects modernized. The kitchen had a pokey feel to it, but the appliances were all sleek and modern, the countertops granite. The living room creaked as Rasul crossed it, and the overstuffed sofa came complete with a knitted afghan right out of the 1970s, but a small television mounted on the wall was the latest brand and connected to a Blu-ray player. The bathroom was the best, full of old white tile with an actual iron claw-foot tub, but also an impressive rainfall shower and a modern sink. It was as clean as the rest of the apartment, not so much as a hair on the floor.
He hurried back to the kitchen, where the black cat had taken up the observation point on the top of the fridge and growled at him when he came too close. He didn’t want to get caught snooping when Rogers returned, but it was taking forever, so he took the man up on his offer and made himself some tea—a loose-leaf Earl Grey. He’d just finished steeping it and was having a sip when the door from the first floor opened and smart footsteps double-timed up the stairs.
Rogers wiped the residual look of murder off his face, but he was still stern as he entered the kitchen. “My apologies for taking so long. It seems my part-timer alerted her friends that you were here, and those friends told their friends, and the end result was a swarm of sixteen-year-olds. A friend of mine came over to mind the shop for a few minutes, and another is en route to escort you home.” He passed a sturdy polyurethane bag with MOORE BOOKS printed on the front and overflowing with books. “Please accept your selected titles gratis as an expression of my apology.”
“I can’t possibly take so many books for free,” Rasul said as the bookseller pressed the bag into his arms. The thought of having more money for food was tempting, but this was a bridge too far. These were the man’s livelihood. “I’m more than happy to pay.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept your money today, but we welcome you back when you next need something to read, at which time I can assure you no one will harass you while you shop.” His expression suggested he might stand guard on the ramp with a shotgun, but then it softened slightly. “Both your novels are in my top-ten favorite titles. Please consider the books a gift from a well-contented reader as well.”
This guy was going to give Rasul a huge head. Damn shame about the sweater. “Can I sign your copies, then?” It didn’t feel presumptive to assume the man had his books in the apartment.
For the first time, the man’s demeanor cracked, and the fissure of delight and eagerness on Rogers’s face made something surprising curl in Rasul’s belly. The spark was gone as soon as it came, however. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”
“It’d be my pleasure, seriously. You have no idea how much you saved me there. My agent is not in the mood to see me splashed all over social media with a bunch of teenage girls. Please, let me sign them.”
The longing crept back in, and Rogers sighed. “If you insist.” His cheeks flushed adorably as he gestured to the living room. “They’re… in here.”
Rasul’s books had, in fact, pride of place on the top of a small bookshelf, both of them nestled next to works by Sir Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Sarah Waters, and—
Rasul grinned as he pulled out the volume. “I Capture the Castle.” He whistled and handled it more carefully as he felt the plastic cover and saw the faded landscape splashed across the spine and front. “First edition. Impressive.”
Rogers blushed like a proud parent. “A gift from my mom and dad when I graduated high school. They wrote supportive notes in the front panels, which scandalized me at the time, but I’m incredibly grateful for them now.” Before Rasul could ask what he meant by that, he took the book from Rasul, slid it reverently back into place, and withdrew The Sword Dancer’s Daughter and Carnivale, placing them in Rasul’s hands.
Rasul was patting his pockets when Rogers gave him a beautiful fountain pen he immediately wished he could ask for instead of the books. He didn’t, though, only cracked open The Sword Dancer’s Daughter and went into author mode. “How shall I make it out?”
“To Jacob, please.”
Rasul dutifully inscribed each copy: To Jacob, who has the loveliest bookstore I’ve ever seen, Rasul Youssef in Dancer; and in Carnivale he wrote To Jacob, my hero, Love, Rasul. He worried that might be a bit too familiar, but he did feel significant affection toward the man right now, for the rescue, the books, and the tea.
Jacob—though honestly, Rasul was going to think of him as Mr. Rogers forever—took a moment to blow across each inked page before whipping out an actual blotter to make absolutely sure nothing would bleed. With an air of satisfaction, he placed the books back on the shelf. “Thank you very much, Mr. Youssef. I’ll treasure them even more now.”
“Call me Rasul, please.” He winced inwardly at how flirty that came out. What in the world was wrong with him?
A strange expression passed over Jacob’s face before he replied. “Thank you, but I couldn’t.” Rising, he smoothed the front of his trousers and adjusted his sweater. He looked about to say something, but then a knock came at the back door. “Ah, that will be Simon, here to take you home.”
A bright, cheerful man in scrubs stood on the other side of the door. Rasul shook his hand for the introduction, then stood patiently as Jacob gave a summary of the situation, distilling it to the essential elements. Visiting professor, needs to get back to his apartment, but some girls in the store behaved badly and may be looking to cause more trouble, so please get him home discreetly.
Simon’s polite expression morphed into cold outrage. “Are you kidding me? Why? Do you know who they are? Their parents?”
Jacob held up a hand. “I do, and
I’ve contacted them. I don’t think any harm was meant. Mr. Youssef is… a bit infamous online.”
The careful way the bookseller phrased that, as if dancing around a highly sensitive topic, made Rasul more abashed than anything Elizabeth could have hurled at him.
Simon, however, brightened, understanding dawning. “Oh—oh. You’re that guy. The author! My husband bought your books because you were coming. He keeps nagging me to read them. Welcome to Copper Point.”
There were a few more pleasantries, and then Jacob gently ushered them out the door and onto the stairs leading to a small parking lot behind the building. With his hand on the rail, Rasul turned to Jacob, trying to work out how to thank him.
He was cuter than Rasul had initially given him credit for, but the sweater still bothered him. It was like he was hiding behind it, dressing like a grandfather so no one noticed him. Rasul wanted to know that story. He wanted to sit in that charming kitchen and listen to the careful man talk while they drank good tea and soaked in excellent atmosphere. Hell, he wanted to write in that kitchen.
Right now, though, all he could do was thank the man for all his help once again.
“It was my pleasure,” Jacob replied politely in that bookseller voice Rasul was starting to resent a little. “Please come by the shop anytime you like.”
With that, he shut the door, and there was nothing for Rasul to do but to follow Simon down the stairs and go back to his terrible apartment with no company except for his ancient phone.
Chapter Two
AS SOON as Jacob Moore heard the doors to Simon’s car close, he shut his eyes, slid down the back of the door, and curled into a ball on the floor of his apartment. After a few minutes he withdrew his phone and texted his friend Gus with trembling fingers.
anybody in shop still
The Bookseller's Boyfriend Page 2
