A Valentine Proposal

by Viv Royce

  Apart from the dust on my knees.

  “I’m so glad you came.” She flashed another smile. “Why don’t we have a look around? You’ve already seen the book castle. I thought up the idea because the shop’s name is Rook. It’s actually the surname of a previous owner, but I wanted the double meaning of the word to come out in the castle and the bird on top.” She pointed out the black papier-mâché bird sitting on one of the turrets. Its gemstone eye glittered.

  “And the window display forest is also your doing?”

  “Yes, I handcraft all the window displays. People drop by especially to see what’s in it now.”

  Mark hitched a brow as if he wasn’t too sure where all of this was going, and she rushed to add, “I don’t make them during working hours, of course. In my own time. And the castle’s completely built from used materials. Upcycling and all that. Kids love it. They can crawl inside and read a little.”

  “Read?” he repeated as if such an action was unfamiliar to him.

  “Yes, read a book they took off the shelf, give it a try, see if it’s for them.”

  “They can read it and then return it to the shelf and leave?”

  Sounds as if there should be a law against it.

  “Yes, that happens sometimes.”

  “And you make no sale?”

  “Not all of the time,” she had to admit reluctantly, “but I’m sure most shops have browsing customers who don’t buy. It’s part of the deal.”

  “You don’t have to make it so easy for them.” He looked around. “I think we could do something with the space to ensure they have to pass the cash register.”

  “Pass the cash register?”

  “Yes.” He gestured in the direction of the door. “You’ve left them a lot of space to leave without having to pass you at the cash register. I guarantee that if you make them pass you while you look at them as they leave empty-handed, they will feel more obliged to buy.”

  You’ve got to be joking. I should stand behind the counter and give them a stern look, like a teacher who detects not-done homework? Or a pleading-puppy-dog look, please buy something and keep my shop afloat?

  Either way, it wouldn’t make her feel too good.

  “But they’re not obliged to buy,” she protested.

  “You’re here to sell books, right? That’s what you do for a living.” He looked her over as if she didn’t fit his image of someone who sold books. Good thing she wasn’t wearing her jacket with all the famous authors on it or her Winnie the Pooh T-shirt. But even if I was, I’d still be a good bookseller.

  “Of course.” She rushed to confirm that she was making a living here. “But part of the shopping experience is browsing, looking, touching, leafing, and feeling the books. Being part of the shop for a bit and being inspired by it.”

  “Inspired?” he repeated. “By the shop?”

  “Yes. By the peace and quiet. Look.” She stepped closer and directed his attention to the oak table nearby. It was surrounded by four oak chairs, had a plant in the center and some floral design coasters to put mugs on, and a matching cookie tin. “There’s my me-time corner. Busy housewives can take a few minutes to sit down and read a bit, take a breath.”

  “And then they buy a book?”

  “Not always. Sometimes they just sit and rest their legs and chat to me about what happened to their kids at breakfast or the argument they had with their mother-in-law. And I listen to them.”

  “You’re not a counselor.”

  “I don’t have to say much. They want to tell me their story, have someone listen to them before they have to rush off again to do groceries or get the kids from school.” Cleo smiled. “I don’t mind listening. Sometimes I unpack books while I listen.” There, that would show him she wasn’t spending her days chatting.

  “That table has to go.” He scowled at it. “It sends a wrong message. You can’t come in and sit here. That’s not what a shop is for.”

  “But people like it. Friends meet here. They bring cookies.” She went over to the table, picked up the tin, and opened it to show him the contents. The scent of butter rose into her nose, making her stomach growl. “I never have to buy any myself. Everybody brings me something to hand out.”

  “Hand out?” he asked slowly as if the conversation was becoming harder and harder to follow.

  “Yes. To go with the coffee.” She pointed at the red coffee machine.

  …

  Coffee? Did she mention coffee?

  Mark’s mouth watered as he stared at the machine, which was so neatly tucked away he hadn’t noticed it before. Coffee. Coffee.

  Uhm, I was saying…

  With utmost concentration, he forced his thoughts back to the conversation. “That table has to go,” he repeated, underlining it with a throw-away gesture. “You can’t offer drinks here. If you had enough space to put up a few tables, yes, maybe. Then you could charge people for the coffee and cookies and…” It would hardly be a book cafe like they ran in some cities, but at least it would bring in some money.

  “Charge them?” she repeated, as if it was a dirty word.

  “Yes, we’re running a business here.”

  “We?” Her eyes seemed to challenge him. She didn’t cross her arms over her chest, she let them dangle casually by her side, but he could sense the tension in her posture. She was itching to battle this out with him. Challenge accepted.

  He waited a moment before saying as neutrally as he could, “As far as I’ve been told, Miss Davis, you don’t own this shop. Your boss does. Mr. Fellows wants to sell it to the Stephens chain. In order to do so, there will be certain…adjustments necessary. I’ll assess the need for those and report accordingly. Then your boss can decide what he wants to do.”

  She widened her eyes as if his words were painful. Maybe the way in which she was neatly written out of the equation, like she didn’t matter? Only the employee, right, doing what the boss decides?

  I’m a total jerk for delivering the message this way. He tried to soften it a bit. Her input did matter, of course, and she had obviously poured her heart and soul into the shop. He had never before met anyone who built book castles and rescued teddies. With her smile, it made for an irresistible combination.

  But his father wouldn’t tolerate papier-mâché fairytale forests in shop windows or tables for stressed housewives who wanted to vent. She’d have to adjust to their set of rules. And I’m the bringer of the bad news. Wasn’t it better to be blunt from the start and not create wrong expectations? Her boss had obviously allowed her a lot of freedom to run the shop the way she wanted, but that would be over now.

  “Once the name Stephens is on the front,” he said, “this shop will be run our way.”

  She held his gaze, visibly struggling to say something. He was open to discussion, of course, but his factual statement left no wriggle room.

  “But the name Stephens is not on the front yet,” she said softly, “and I’m going to pour you a cup of coffee and then we can sit down and talk about it.”

  If only today of all days hadn’t been the one day that he hadn’t had coffee. His brain and body screamed for it. He licked his lips at the idea of a tasty sip. “I really don’t…” he protested feebly, but she was already at the machine pushing buttons, and then the happy splatter started.

  Best sound in the world. And the scent… Mark inhaled hard to catch any whiff coming in his direction. It’ll probably be a cheap machine, not the best quality, not what I’m used to.

  Doesn’t matter. As long as there’s caffeine in it.

  “There you go.” Cleo handed him a cup. “Sugar and creamer on the table, if you want.” She gestured at the cute little bowls holding sugar and creamer with small spoons, their ends decorated with tiny books.

  “All black for me.” Mark held the cup to his nose and inhaled. Amazing.


  Looking up, he caught her amused gaze. “This doesn’t mean,” he said quickly, “that the table can stay.”

  “Of course not,” Cleo said demurely, but he didn’t miss the twinkle in her eye as she turned away from him to make her own.

  Is she bribing me with coffee?

  If she is, it’s working. He sat down and blew on the coffee, eager for it to cool so he could taste it.

  Cleo picked up her cup and came to sit opposite him. She leaned her hands on the table, around the cup.

  She didn’t wear any rings. Could a special woman like this be single? Buried in work maybe, like I am?

  Not that it matters. He took a sip of coffee. Too soon. It burned his tongue, but the flavor rolled around with a richness he didn’t even get at luxury hotels. No wonder those housewives came here. Great coffee and a hostess who looked at them with a genuine interest. The way she was looking at him now. She’s merely interested in what I can reveal about the store’s future, of course. Nothing personal.

  “I thought we should first—” he began, but she cut him off with a hand gesture.

  “The coffee is best when you drink it without discussing stuff. Taste it and smell the books. They go so well together.” She raised her own cup to her lips, took a sip, and looked around her as if she were here for the very first time. There was a sparkle to her entire being that made her glow. But this was the shop where she worked, where she spent her hours, day in day out. Why did she look like—

  She’s in love with it?

  Yes, she looked exactly like Tamela had looked when she had first started dating James. She had always been cheerful, a positive person, but then she’d started dancing through life, planning her wedding, looking for dresses, a house. Until James had taken it all away. About killed her. The rotten bastard.

  Every muscle in Mark’s body involuntarily tensed. Breathe.

  But the anger digging into his core wouldn’t let go. Tamela had paid the price for being so trusting, so happy, so…in need of other people. It was better to be rational, businesslike, and evaluate things based on facts, not feelings. She could craft her fairytale forests at night but not put them in the shop window. Separate “personal” and “business.”

  With a jerk, he looked up at the woman opposite him and said, “The table will have to go, and so will the book castle. It doesn’t fit the Stephens brand profile. We want to offer customers a recognizable house style.” He could recite these words in his sleep. “Wherever they shop, from east to west coast, from big city to small town, they have to rely on the Stephens formula, offering them a familiar valued experience of buying the best in books at top notch prices.”

  Chapter Three

  Cleo swallowed. For a moment, she had believed she could thaw him a bit. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her—an interest, an opening. A crack in his businesslike armor. Whether it was books that could connect them, or coffee, or whatever she didn’t know yet, she’d find the way in and convince him Rook could stay as it was. Now he sounded like a tape recorder delivering a preprogrammed message.

  Hahaha. Had she really thought she could bribe a businessman with a cup of coffee and a story about how the books smelled? He was all about grabbing opportunities, making sales, charging people for that experience he wanted to offer them. All that mattered to him at the end of the day was the sum total displayed on the cash register. That was the way to keep a business alive.

  Her heart clenched at the idea of having to change what she loved about the shop. Take down my castle? No way. But as he had pointed out already, it was a decision made between her boss and the Stephens chain. If the sale was a go, she’d have to adjust.

  Even if she had no idea how.

  “I’m open to your suggestions.” Ouch, that sounds so insincere. “But you, uh, misjudge how a shop functions in a small community. You’re more city-minded, and your formula is very successful there, so…you think it’s the best way.”

  “The only way,” he corrected.

  Cleo tensed at the rather self-assured statement. “In the city, people are more individuals who want certain things from a shop: easy access and fast service, picking up a book on their way to work or the train. They don’t want to drink coffee and chat. They’re rushing to their next appointment. But here, people see shopping as a moment to connect with others in the community. Have a chat, share experiences, feel you’re part of a bigger whole. So our shops cater to that feeling.”

  The word “feeling” seemed to make Mark Stephens wince, and once upon a time, she had been exactly like him, thinking that in the cases she’d handled as a lawyer, facts were all that mattered, an outcome according to the law book. But she had left that line of work to follow her dream. She’d exchanged a sense of obligation toward her parents and clients for a deep enthusiasm that kept her going, even when things got tough. Fight for it now.

  “Working in this shop isn’t merely a job for me,” she added. “It’s a passion. I love books, and I want to share that love with others. I can’t offer the books here and expect the customers to start loving them like I do. First I have to engage with them and offer them something they want, even need. Like I told you, busy housewives can settle here for a bit and read a book—”

  “That they’re not going to buy,” he interrupted with an icy stare. “Are you sure you’re working here? Shouldn’t you be at the community center across the road, setting up nice coffee sessions on Thursday mornings for those busy housewives?”

  “They’re too busy to come to those! They can’t free an hour in their schedule. They’d feel guilty about it. But if they’re on Heart Street anyway, buying clothes for the little ones or grocery shopping for dinner, and they come in here and take ten minutes to drink coffee and chat with me, they recharge and don’t feel like it was…all that much. It works.”

  “Again, nice and something for the community center maybe, but…how do you plan to sell books? At Stephens, we have a three-tier approach.” Mark spread his hands. They were lean and suntanned, no rings. Probably a workaholic, married to the job.

  Mark explained, “Each shop is assessed based on its size, number of personnel, customers, geographical area where potential buyers might come from, and then we determine how much you have to sell in a month, or in a quarter, to stay on board. Your target figure, we call that. It’s good to keep an eye on sales as you go and calculate whether you can make the figure or need to put in extra effort before…”

  “It’s too late?” She hitched a brow in defiance.

  “Before the moment of evaluation for the period in question,” he corrected with an infuriating calm.

  “I see.” Cleo leaned against the chair. The back seemed to press uncomfortably into her shoulders as if it told her to straighten under Mark’s scrutiny. “And what tier do you think I’d be in?” Just like a piece of cattle in a cattle show, studied by an expert jury to decide it’s suitable for inclusion in a breeding program.

  “The shop will be in. You’re taking this far too personally. I’m not here to criticize what you do. Or what you believe in.” He sounded softer, as if her beliefs did matter to him. “I’m here to assess whether this shop can become a part of our chain. You’ll have to adjust, and if your views differ so much from ours, it’ll be an uphill battle.”

  A fight I can’t win? Cleo folded her hands and stared at the nail she had torn this morning and had meant to cut. We’ll see about that. She couldn’t wait to see his face when she told him, “You’re right. We’ll find some other way to keep the shop alive. Thanks for your time, goodbye.”

  But there was no such way. Her boss was pulling out, and she didn’t have enough money of her own. Her parents had refused to lend her some. The look on Dad’s face as she’d broached the subject…

  Her hands formed into fists, nails digging into her palms. She had never asked them for money before. Would never have, for h
erself—for a vacation, a car, or whatever. But for the bookshop, she’d do anything. Even humiliate myself.

  “You know how I feel about you working in that shop,” Dad had said. “You’re capable of so much more. If it’s closing and you have to leave, all the better. Then you can finally do something with your life.”

  “I won’t suddenly come back to your firm and practice law again because the shop closes down.” Anger had shaken her hands, but she had tried to speak calmly. Dad hated emotions.

  “You’re a lawyer, Cleo. You were born to be one.” He had shaken his head at her in slow emphasis. “Don’t you see what life is trying to tell you? That you’re in the wrong place. That it’s time to move on. You had your chance to do this thing, indulge in a nice hobby. Now please get on with what really matters.”

  She bit her lip and blinked hard. His rejection still grated like a cut that wouldn’t heal. Mom hadn’t done anything to support her, either. She had money of her own in a separate bank account. She could have called her a few days later and said, “Look, your father doesn’t need to know that I helped you.”

  Yes, she had actually hoped for that. Had waited by the phone for the call, closing her eyes and wishing hard. Like she had often made hopeful fantasies about what her parents would do. Come to her play, come to her graduation. They never had. They had always had something more important to do. It had never been about her.

  Not then, not now.

  …

  Mark watched the emotion flicker in her eyes: disappointment, hurt. He was used to people not responding well to the idea that they’d have to follow another’s wishes from now on, play by another’s rules, but that was the way it was. He couldn’t change that. But Cleo was different. This shop embodied her love of books, which she tried to convey to the customers, especially the little ones like the boy with the bear. Forcing this shop to change would be like forcing her to change, telling her, “Don’t be creative, don’t build things, use the display material we hand out to every shop. Be like all the others,” instead of, “Be yourself.”