Love in the City

by Jen Morris

  But it’s more than that. It’s a bookstore, which at the very least is related to writing. And yes, I know this is what I did back home, but it’s not the same. For one, it’s in the West Village in New freaking York, so that makes it a million times cooler. And two, Geoff is awesome. I haven’t sorted out a working visa yet, and when Geoff brought it up I thought my chance at the job was gone. Instead, he agreed to pay me in cash until I get it sorted. How nice is that?

  The more I get to know Geoff, the more I like him. He’s friendly and kind, intelligent and quick-witted, with a dry sense of humor. I can see why his shop does so well. People love him.

  The store isn’t huge, but it has a great selection of both new and secondhand books. It’s at street level, with windows where the sun streams in for a couple of hours around midday, and narrow aisles where shelves of books stretch up to the high ceilings.

  But the thing I love most is the atmosphere of the store. It’s cozy and welcoming, with that indescribable smell of books, and soft music playing—Sinatra, I think. Even if Geoff didn’t hire me I’d be happy to hang out here all day.

  I spend most of the morning learning about the cash register, how they organize and shelve books, as well as how to add new inventory into the system. Geoff talks me through locking up and gives me a set of keys. Then I putter around the counter, tidying and rearranging the bookmarks we have stacked next to the register, greeting customers and generally loving every moment. Not just because I’m warm, in my own clothes, and no one is shouting obscenities at me from a car window—but also because, for the first time in ages, I’m feeling inspired to write.

  The afternoon is quiet, and Geoff tells me to take some time to browse the store and get familiar with everything. He says that I’m welcome to borrow books if I see anything I like, and I decide that’s the perfect invitation for me to check out the writing section, to see if I can find some books on how to write a romance novel. I’m delighted to find we have a few, which I flip through eagerly. There’s lots of information about structuring a novel and creating the characters, and while some of the books are geared towards writing tender, sweet romances, there are also some that show how to write the naughty bits. Perfect.

  I grab one of each and just as I’m about to go and pop them behind the counter, I spy a small section of erotica. Come to think of it, some erotica could be helpful. Not for me, of course—for my writing. I’m going to need to be able to write sex scenes without using words like “throbbing manhood” and “lovestick” and all that, right?

  With a quick glance over my shoulder—Geoff, thankfully, is pricing stock a few aisles away—I tiptoe over and pull a few titles off the shelves.

  Wow. These things are hot and heavy, and while I don’t think I’ll be writing with such graphic detail, I could learn a thing or two. I should probably borrow them. For research purposes, obviously. No other reason.

  I add a couple to my pile, then head back down the aisle towards the counter. A familiar voice stops me in my tracks, and my pulse skips when I realize who it is.

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll be home when we agreed. Yes, drop him off then.”

  I pop my head between the shelves and spy Michael with his phone pressed to his ear, his face creased into its usual frown. What is he doing here? He’s the last person I feel like running into in the middle of my first day at work.

  I slink back behind a stand of Moleskine notebooks and hold my breath, as if he’ll hear breathing and somehow realize it’s me. No doubt he’ll be up in arms about running into me again and I’ll end up feeling stupid, somehow. Maybe I should just hide here, until—

  Actually, no. This is my place of work, for crying out loud. I even told him that a few days ago. He can hardly get annoyed at me for being here.

  I square my shoulders, lifting my head high. I’m just about to stride past him to the counter when I remember what I’m holding. I glance down at the stack of books in my arms and despite myself, I feel my cheeks color.

  Shit.

  Somehow I can’t see Michael, with his disdain for everything female, perusing my reading material with any kind of admiration. Who knows what unpleasant remark he’ll have up his sleeve?

  His frustrated voice drifts down the aisle to where I’m hovering. “Look, I said I’ll be there, okay?”

  I can’t stop myself; I peek around the stand at him. I haven’t seen him in a few days, and I notice his usually perfect suit jacket is a bit rumpled. He looks tired, almost worn-out, and for the first time I see a flash of something real beyond his chiseled, expensive, brooding exterior. Maybe he is human, after all. I feel a whisper of compassion for him after what Agnes told me this morning. Is it possible she’s right and he is a nice guy?

  He lifts a hand to loosen the collar of his shirt, revealing a hint of dark chest hair. My eyes linger on it and heat uncurls deep inside me. A little fantasy begins to play out in my head; one involving him taking me on the floor of the book aisle when no one else is around.

  He hangs up the call and stuffs the phone into his pocket, glancing up. Instinctively, I whip back behind the stand of Moleskines, my heart slamming into my ribs. It’s like I’ve been caught in the act; watching him, imagining him touching me, and—fuck—I’m still holding these damn books…

  Panic tears through me as his footsteps approach, and I thrust the books onto a stepladder behind me.

  “Hello, Alex.”

  I spin back to face him, my cheeks warm. “Michael,” I say with as nonchalant an air as I can muster. “What a surprise, seeing you in here.”

  “Uh, yes.” His gaze slides to the right. “I forgot you work here.”

  I falter for a second, thrown. He forgot? Really?

  He glances back at me and adds, “I come here all the time anyway, so…” he trails off, slipping his hands into his pockets, and his shoulders flex through his suit jacket. I swallow hard, noticing my mouth feels dry. I wonder what he looks like without that jacket.

  Shit, pull yourself together.

  I tear my eyes away, attempting to fold my arms across my chest in a casual manner. But all it does is press my breasts up, as if I’m trying to draw his attention to them. Oh, the curse of an ample bosom.

  I let my arms drop with a cringe. Why do I find it so impossible to be normal around this guy? And more to the point, why do I care? He’s been nothing but a jerk to me.

  He peers at me strangely. “Are you okay?”

  I plaster a smile on my face, reminding myself where I am; the first day of a new job that I do not want to mess up.

  “I’m fine! I’m just…” What am I doing again? Not shopping for erotica when I should be working. Be professional! “I was just enjoying the large selection of books we stock. For example, this”—I gesture with a vague motion to the bookshelf in front of me—“is my favorite section.”

  He follows my gaze to the shelves and frowns, leaning closer to inspect the titles. “You’re interested in military history?”

  God, no. But better that, than the books I was just carrying.

  “Oh, yes.” I nod emphatically. “I find it so thrilling.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. It’s fascinating, all of the, er, history.” I wince as I hear myself. Jesus, I sound like some kind of simpleton.

  “How… interesting.” His brow knits as he gazes at me, like he’s trying to make sense of me. The longer he stares, the more I start to sweat. Any minute now he’s going to make some sweeping generalization about women and it’s making me nervous.

  I give an awkward laugh and lean against the stepladder behind me, inadvertently dislodging my stack of erotica and romance books. They slide out at our feet with a thud.

  Oh fuck.

  We both glance down at the stack. The cover on top has a bare-chested gentleman with a suggestive bulge in his pants, a crown dangling from one hand, and the title The Prince of Pleasure across the front in red script.

  Oh my God.

  My face is on fire as
I glance back up to see Michael biting his lip, attempting to hold back a smirk.

  “Just a little light reading there?”

  “Um…” Mortification washes over me. I wish the ground would swallow me up and end this bloody nightmare right now.

  He bends to collect the books, handing the pile to me. I hold them to my chest, against my hammering heart.

  “Is this your usual reading material?” His eyebrows are raised and there’s a tug at the corner of his mouth.

  I clear my throat, trying to think of something witty to say, but I’m drawing a blank. First he sees me in a slutty Snow White costume and now he catches me with an armload of erotica. He must think I’m a sex-crazed lunatic.

  “It’s…” I start, but I can’t think of anything to say. I’m perspiring with embarrassment now. From the corner of my eye I see Geoff wander past and I’m struck by a flash of brilliance. “Oh, these aren’t mine. I’m just reshelving them.” I lean forward, lowering my voice in a conspiratorial manner. “It’s amazing what some people read.” I give what I hope is a carefree laugh and turn to jam the books onto the military history shelf, before focusing my attention back on Michael. “Now, is there something I can help you with?”

  Michael glances from the shelf to me, amusement gleaming in his eye. “Sure. Where’s your travel section?”

  I turn to show him, then pause. “I thought you came in here all the time?”

  “Uh—” His gaze flicks down the aisle then back to me. “I do. I’m just… testing to see if you know. You haven’t worked here very long.”

  My jaw tightens. “Of course. This way.” I lead the way to the next aisle and indicate the travel section. Someone has shoved a few books in the wrong place and I quickly set about straightening them up.

  Then, before I can step out of the way, Michael leans past me to grab a book. The buttons of his shirt strain across his broad chest as he reaches to the shelf, and when his hand brushes over the back of mine, there’s a shock through me. All the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end and I feel almost light-headed.

  But Michael, oblivious, just takes the book and scans the back cover. “Do you know if this is any good?”

  I try to formulate a response but I’m still reeling from his brief touch. And he’s close enough that I can smell him—an intoxicating combination of woodsy cologne and the faintest hint of sweat that’s doing something crazy to me. It’s just so manly. It’s been ages since I’ve smelled something like this and I just want to huff it all in until I’m dizzy.

  “Alex?” Michael prompts, a V forming between his brows.

  I catch Geoff watching me quizzically from behind a stack of books the next aisle over. Shit.

  “Er… yes?”

  “This book. Is it any good?”

  I glance down at the book in his hands. It’s new, I think, because we were going to be getting it at the store back home but it hadn’t arrived before I left. It’s supposed to be the new Wild, or something. “I haven’t read it, sorry.”

  “Why not?” Tiny, almost imperceptible crinkles form around his eyes. “Because there’s nobody naked on the cover?”

  Heat rises up my neck. I knew he hadn’t bought that little performance back there. My teeth grit in irritation but I force myself to stay calm. It’s time to show him I’m an intelligent woman with a wide breadth of knowledge—to put him in his place, once and for all.

  Ignoring his comment, I turn to the shelf and pull out a slimmer book—one I actually have read and loved for years. “I’d recommend this, instead,” I say with an air of expertise.

  He takes it and reads the back cover, running a hand over his short beard, his brow wrinkled in thought. I try not to stare but I can’t help myself. I know Agnes said he was lovely, but where is she getting that from? To me he’s been nothing but rude and obnoxious. But… God, he’s easy on the eyes. Up close I notice his beard has flecks of gray in it, which only makes him sexier. I’m guessing he’s a good decade older than me, at least. And he must be nearly a foot taller than I am—definitely over six feet…

  He glances up to catch me staring and gives me an odd look. Flustered, I turn back to the shelf and yank out a bunch of books.

  “Or you could try these.” I thrust the pile into his hands.

  He shuffles through the titles and pulls one out on top. “What about this one?”

  I tilt my head to look at the cover. Oops. I should have chosen more carefully because that book—Three Months on the Appalachian Trail—isn’t good. Well, I don’t know for certain because I haven’t read it, but I do remember a customer back home saying something about it being disappointing for some reason. And I can’t very well have him buy it and then think I don’t know what I’m talking about, so I just carry on as if I’d read it last week.

  “Oh, there are much better books. I’d definitely recommend the other one over that.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Well, er… this one has some good points, but it doesn’t give very detailed information about the, uh”—I scramble for the right words, my face hot—“topography… and all that.”

  “The topography?”

  “Yes… of the mountain ranges and the terrain and—” I break off with a vague gesture. “You know.” I give him a meaningful look, as if we are both experienced hikers who have a shared knowledge of such things and therefore they don’t need to be spoken aloud.

  He cocks his head to one side, his brow furrowed. Somehow, I don’t think he’s buying my spiel.

  Dammit.

  For good measure, I throw in a few more details. “I also think it had bad reviews. Plus, er, the author isn’t very well-known or respected.” I give him a smug smile. See, I know my stuff.

  But he narrows his eyes at me. “Really?”

  Shit. I don’t know.

  “Well, the last thing I want is for you to buy something that’s only going to disappoint.”

  He gives an indignant huff, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I open my mouth to say something more and he cuts me off.

  “Never mind.” He leans past me to place the books back. Before I can stop myself, I inhale his scent again and my breath catches in my throat.

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” I mumble, my cheeks burning.

  He rubs the back of his neck, gazing at me with that deep frown etched on his face, then sighs. “It’s fine. Thanks.” Then he strides towards the door before I can say anything more.

  Geoff appears beside me out of nowhere, wide-eyed. “Who was that?”

  I hesitate. I’m hardly going to tell Geoff he’s Cat’s neighbor, in case it gets back to Cat that I’m—for reasons I can’t quite fathom—pissing him off and causing tension in the building. I mean, Agnes loves him, so Cat probably thinks he’s the bee’s knees too. It’s just me who can’t seem to get along with him.

  “Just… a guy I accidentally spilled coffee on a few weeks ago. He was impatient and rude and… I don’t know. He was a bit of a jerk.”

  Geoff rolls his eyes. “Ugh, I know the type. Too busy thinking about himself to worry about anyone else. And I bet that’s an expensive suit.”

  I nod. “He’s the kind of person I imagine when I think of New Yorkers: rude, impatient, career-obsessed.”

  Geoff pretends to look hurt and I laugh, shaking my head at him. Because that’s what I like about Cat and Geoff. They’re nothing like that.

  “Well,” Geoff says, patting me on the arm reassuringly, “I’m sure the nonsense you were spouting about that book put him off coming back.”

  I cringe. God, he heard that? I bet I’ve lost the job now. I open my mouth to apologize, but Geoff just laughs.

  “It’s okay. We don’t want him here anyway,” he says. Then adds quietly, “Even if he is gorgeous.”

  11

  Not a brilliant first day at work. Well, the morning was great but seeing Michael just kind of killed the afternoon. I don’t know what that guy’s pro
blem is.

  Anyway, I’ve got bigger issues right now. Cat texted me just as I was leaving work to say that we need to discuss our living situation, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to tell me she wants her living room back. I can’t blame her, right? I’ve been on her sofa for two and half weeks, which she probably wasn’t counting on when she offered me a place to crash. I wasn’t planning on staying there that long.

  I try to think happy thoughts on the walk back from work—new job, yay! Geoff is lovely, yay!—but by the time I’m entering the apartment, my stomach is turning like a corkscrew. Because if Cat kicks me out, none of that will matter.

  She’s standing on a step-ladder in the living room, hanging some curtains in the corner when I enter. Stevie bounds over to me, jumping up my leg and demanding a pat as I close the door. I stoop to pet her head with a sigh. I’m going to miss this pup.

  Cat glances over as I place my bag on the counter. “Oh good, you’re home.”

  “Hey.” I pick Stevie up to cuddle, taking a deep breath to prepare for what’s coming. “You wanted to talk about the apartment, yeah?”

  “Yes!” She grins as she climbs down the ladder.

  “I haven’t found a place yet, but I can hopefully get out of your hair in the next couple days. Would that be okay? I just need to—”

  “Wait. You think I’m asking you to leave?”

  “Er…” I scratch my nose. “Well, yeah.”

  “No! I had an idea that could work for both of us.” She pauses, chewing her lip. “Would you consider living here? I can’t offer you a room, but there’s that area over there.” She gestures to the corner of the living room where she was hanging the curtains. I notice her sewing stuff is gone, and there’s a bed and dresser tucked behind the partition wall. “I know it’s not ideal, but I won’t charge you anywhere near what an apartment would cost.”

  “Oh,” I say, taken aback. It had never occurred to me that Cat would want me to stay here. It is a lovely apartment, but I was kind of hoping for my own room, or even my own place. Still, I haven’t found a single apartment that meets the criteria of being somewhere I’d actually want to live, available now and—perhaps most crucially—within my budget.