by Viv Royce
…
Great. Just great. Cleo rubbed her hands together. In her emotional state after Mom’s call, she’d started running at too fast a pace, wearing herself out in no time. All her muscles had started to ache, and her lungs had burned, as if there was no oxygen in the cold February air.
She had been slogging along, wondering how she’d get back, when this car had pulled up. She would have jumped for joy if it had been Grant, Emma, or another friend from town. Anybody but Mark Stephens.
Imagine the man who had to judge whether you were capable of running a successful bookshop finding you like that. Worn out, cold to the bone, and…probably with red-rimmed eyes, too. She tried to peek at her own face in the side mirror but couldn’t see much. Can he please think that cold wind causes red eyelids and blotchy cheeks?
“Do you jog often?” he asked.
“Almost every day if I can make it.”
“No matter the weather?”
“A little rain or a strong wind never hurt anyone. With the right gear, you don’t get cold. Maybe I should have eaten before I started.”
“There’s a bag of pecan nuts in the glove compartment, if you want some.”
“Thanks.” She got them out and poured a handful into her palm.
“I used to jog in college. Go around campus, listening to the birds sing. But in the city, there’s too much concrete and traffic, and…I gave up on it. In a place like this, you can get back to nature, I suppose.”
“You don’t have to live in a city if you don’t want to.” Cleo glanced at him. “I told you I was raised in the suburbs of Boston and I came here.” A touch of excitement sparked inside. Maybe Mark could get inspired by the quiet beauty of Wood Creek and spend more time here? They could see more of each other and…
Mark smiled wearily, and the spark inside her died. He was probably shaking his head inwardly at this suggestion. Everybody had these moments where they wished their life was different, had more room for exercise or enjoying nature, but it didn’t mean they acted on it. Mark had a life somewhere else. A life he probably loved. Why would he want to change anything about it?
And why would it matter if he was leaving town as soon as the Valentine’s campaign was over? She chewed on the pecan nuts, which suddenly filled her mouth with a big lump, like chewing gum. He had asked her whether her work in the bookstore, among her imaginary friends, living among the pages, meant she was never alone. Right now, she knew the answer. No. She was alone, more often than she acknowledged. And she didn’t want to be alone anymore. She wanted to feel togetherness like she did right now.
He reached out and turned the heat up a bit. “There.” He glanced at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.” She rubbed her arm, more to mask her discomfort than because she was still cold. Mark’s car was warm enough, and the chair molded itself comfortably to her back. Her tired muscles relaxed, and the air could now stream freely into her nostrils again. It carried the scent of his aftershave. Was it really that bad that he’d seen me and picked me up?
Of course it’s bad. He’s not a friend. He’s deciding about my life. I have to appear strong to him, capable.
In charge.
“It was a great event last night.” Mark glanced at her again. “I think I want to steal this idea from you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Sorry?”
“The idea of a charity auction in a cinema with a Golden Age feel. The dress code. The drinks. The whole setup. It could definitely work for some shops in the chain. We could ask our clientele to attend, buy tickets. I want to put it in an idea file I have. To see if it could be something for us. Discuss it with my father.”
Who will no doubt hate it and dismiss it. Cleo shrugged. “Sure, put it in your idea file. I put the plan together with others. In fact, they suggested the old cinema. Why don’t you use a team to bounce ideas off of?”
Mark seemed to tense. “I’m more of a single rider.”
She had already guessed as much. A loner in the way he operated professionally and personally. Single by choice and keeping it that way.
Not that it matters to me, of course.
She said hurriedly, “You could ask people in the company to email you their ideas. And you can go through them and see if they are practical, etcetera. You don’t have to do it with a team and all kinds of activities to band together.”
“Like bungee jumping to create the team spirit?” Mark asked. His eyes twinkled.
Cleo had to smile. “For instance.” She settled back into the seat. “Great, if you like that sort of thing, but it’s not for everyone. I love being in charge of the shop on my own. Doing my thing, exclusively. Deciding about what to stock, how to dress up the window. I can get totally lost in my own little world. But when I do events, I have to cooperate with others, if only because I need more hands to make everything work out. I realized that they have great ideas that make it all better. You can still be a single rider who works alongside others.”
“I’ll put that in the idea file as well,” he said in a dry tone.
She studied his expression. Was he angry at her? It was presumptuous to suggest how he should act while he was making the decision about whether she could keep her shop. She clenched her hands together. If Mom and Dad had only lent her money so she could have become her own boss, it need not have come to this.
Mark glanced at her. “Are you worried about the shop?”
“Not more than before. Why do you ask?”
“I…want you to know I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
She blinked. Did he really think that if she was worried, she’d share with him? Expose all her weaknesses, the financial problems, to the assessor who had come to make sure such things did not exist? She had already told him too much.
Did he mean the shop? Or was he really asking her to share something personal? To open up to him? He had confided in her last night about his sister. She had wanted to reach out to him, and it would have hurt her deeply if he had coldly rejected her attempt to support him. As if they were…
Total strangers? We are.
He said, “You don’t have to tell me what it’s about, but you shouldn’t run in the cold all alone. Talk to a friend or someone around town. Someone you trust.”
The implication was clear. Someone you trust as opposed to him, sitting right beside her—someone she didn’t trust.
“It’s not something anyone can really help with,” she said, staring ahead through the windshield. “My father works too many hours, and my mother is worried about his health. But he won’t take any help from an assistant or someone like that. Every once in a while, Mom calls me all upset because she thinks he’s working so hard he’ll…”
“Get burned out.”
“Or worse. A heart attack, something like that.”
Mark exhaled with a hiss. “You can’t talk sense into someone who’s addicted to his work. My father is the same. To him, the idea of having fun is to go over accounts until three in the morning. He doesn’t have hobbies. My mother drags him to social occasions and forces him to go on vacations with her, but even then, he’s checking his email and… He can’t let go.”
“Do you worry about him?”
“Yes, at times. He’s not getting any younger, and he really should do something to stay fit. But I can’t change him. That’s the way he’s wired. All of his friends are the same, working eighty hours a week for their businesses, no off button. When they’re together, they try to outdo each other by showing off what new gadget they have so they can be available 24/7. Dad thinks it’s normal.” He waited a moment and added, “Why do you think I became an assessor and can travel all the time? I don’t want to work with him, side by side, day in day out. I’d go crazy.”
He looked at her. “Don’t blame yourself for your father’s attitude, Cleo. It’s his choice.”
She bit her lip. Mark had no idea how much strain her choice to step away from a law career had caused in her relationship with her parents. How she had dashed all of their hopes for the future and kept dashing them every time Mom called to share her worries and claim her for the firm anew. It never seemed to end. “Did your father put pressure on you to get into the company?”
Mark pursed his lips. “What’s pressure? He involved me in it from a young age. He took me to bookstores; he told me about the process. He never said, ‘You have to come work for me,’ but it was sort of silently expected that it would be so.”
“And you simply accepted that?”
He laughed softly. “It sounds like you think me spineless if I had.” He seemed to consider for a few moments and then continued, “I love books. I’m also fascinated by customer dynamics, what makes people return to a shop, become a loyal customer, or buy somewhere once and never come back. I think my father created an amazing brand, and I want to contribute to that. For now.”
Cleo narrowed her eyes. “So you won’t necessarily be doing this forever?”
He laughed. “Forever is a long time.” Serious, he continued, “I don’t know what I might do later on. There are a lot of things that interest me. I’m not like my father, completely sold on one thing. I can even see myself going abroad for a few years.”
Yes, of course, Mark was cosmopolitan like that. She could see him sitting on a terrace in Verona sipping a cappuccino. Or skiing in the Alps.
“How about you?”
“If I take on the responsibility for the shop here in Wood Creek, that would be my priority for the next few years.”
“But never say never,” Mark said. “Wouldn’t you like to see bookstores all over the world? Find out how they’re run? Or discover new books you’ve never heard about? You must have a bookish wishlist? Dream destinations you’d go to in a heartbeat, if time and money weren’t an issue.”
They were in Wood Creek now, and he turned onto Heart Street and halted the car.
Cleo looked him in the eye. Suddenly, she had a vision of a bookstore somewhere, a big one with chandeliers and wooden bookcases full of volumes and a coffee shop and the two of them there together, looking around, laughing, and having fun. Mark would take her hand in his, and she would burst with joy at being…
Wake up. Hello there. He’s being friendly. Nothing more. She shook her head a moment to get the dreamy idea out of her system. “Thanks for the lift. I’d better get in and change to start the workday.” She reached for the door to open it.
“Have a decent breakfast before you rush down to open up.” Mark put his hand on her arm. “And I hope your father will be okay.”
The squeeze of his strong, suntanned fingers touched her heart. He didn’t judge her. He’d been there for her. Like no one had before.
On the other side of the street, the baker’s wife pulled out the chalkboard sign advertising their deal of the day. She craned her neck to see who was in the car.
Eleanor’s spiteful words resurfaced. Getting close to Mark was impossible, on so many levels. She took a deep breath and opened the car door. The cold air wafting in drove goose flesh across her back. She didn’t want to tear herself away, but she had to. Before it was too late.
“Thanks,” she repeated, her voice brittle. “See you later.”
…
Mark watched as she walked to the shop and disappeared into the door leading to the upstairs apartment. During their conversation, his restless feeling had been gone. He had been completely focused on her, listening carefully, helping her if he could. Now it returned full force. Seeing her undone, upset, had fueled a protective fire inside, which wasn’t making it any better. He had to steel himself against these emotions. He had to make a purely rational decision about the shop.
But that’s the last thing I want. If it doesn’t become part of the Stephens chain, it’ll have to close. Cleo will lose her job and be free. Free to come with me. She could live close to him. They could see each other, go jogging together, have dinner, whatever she liked. They could travel to Europe together, like he had suggested. He could take her to Paris, or no, better, to villages in Provence, among the lavender fields, walk the cobbled streets together, browse windows, buy souvenirs, have coffee on a terrace shadowed by age-old oaks. Walk hand in hand as the sun went down…
No, no, no. He shouldn’t even think about it, build a whole idea of Cleo and him. She wasn’t with him now, and he had to make a rational decision.
Or if he wanted to make an emotional one, he’d have to do what was right for her. Let her keep the shop, her life here in Wood Creek, her future within this community, her dreams of following her heart. She had sacrificed so much for it, making a different choice from what her parents had wanted for her, risking the relationship like that. Her tears had flowed for her father, his workaholic behavior. The way in which he risked his health and she couldn’t help him. He couldn’t keep her father out of health trouble. But he could save the shop for her and make sure her choice hadn’t been for nothing.
He could give her the future she wanted, even if it would be far away from him.
Chapter Nine
“This is great.” Cleo looked around the kitchen of the restaurant Gourmet Maitre, venue for the night’s cooking workshop. The huge stoves and shiny metal cooking islands usually worked by the restaurant’s top-notch chefs were now empty and waiting for the participants in Literary Likes to come in. They’d be working in three shifts of five couples each, thus allowing thirty people in total to participate during the night. Cleo couldn’t wait to see who she had been paired with.
She had created the questions for the pairing herself, varying from If you could time travel to the location of a historical novel, where would you go and why? to What is your favorite posture while reading?
Twenty questions in all, meant to combine people with the same tastes in reading who’d have something to discuss while cooking up a storm together. Gourmet Maitre was the perfect place to try their hands at a dish they had never done before, expanding their culinary horizons.
“We put all the fresh ingredients there,” the restaurant owner explained to her, gesturing at the far wall. “And recipes are on that table. Each couple can select an appetizer, a main course, and a dessert. I didn’t make it too difficult, but it’s not chicken nuggets with fries, either.”
“You did a great job. Thanks so much for being a part of this.”
The man waved it off. “We try to do something social every few months, and this was a good fit. My granddaughter loves going to your bookshop. She saves her allowance for new books.”
A voice called from the doors, “Cleo! The participants are all here.” It was Lizzie Cates, owner of the antique shop on Heart Street and Cleo’s fellow organizer for the night. Lizzie was the one who had encouraged her to participate in the Literary Likes cooking herself, saying it would be a ton of fun.
Waving to Lizzie that she was coming, Cleo thanked their host again and joined her co-chair, who led her into the restaurant’s main room where the participants were waiting. Varying from a teenaged girl in a manga T-shirt to a gentleman well into his eighties, leaning on a walking cane, this was a group who seemed to have nothing in common, and yet she was looking at pairs of people united by the same taste in books. Amazing.
Lizzie pulled out a list. “I’ll read out the names of the combinations, and then you can go into the kitchen to start cooking.”
“Have fun tonight,” Cleo added. Her heart skipped a beat. In the back of the room, a familiar tall figure stood, silently watching everything with his arms crossed over his chest. What’s Mark doing here?
Panic washed through her. I can’t face him. Not after that scene in the car. I should never have told him about Dad. He was so nice about it, like he really cared, but…I shouldn’t have cracked like that.
She forced her thoughts to something practical. If she counted him, the group was an uneven number. That can’t be right. Is someone missing?
Or was Mark not cooking? To be honest, she had no idea whether he’d enjoy sautéing an onion.
“And Mark Stephens and Cleo Davis.”
Cleo turned her head to Lizzie. “Excuse me?”
“You’re the fifth combination.” Lizzie beamed at her. “You had no less than twelve out of twenty answers in common. More than any other couple here tonight.”
“That can’t be,” Cleo said, trying to remember her answers. They’d been personal. How has Mark filled in the same things?
“Ready to get cracking?” a voice asked beside her. The warmth in it drove away the uneasiness about her breakdown. He had actually sounded a bit sad when he had said she should talk to someone she trusted. As if it had hurt him that she didn’t trust him.
But she did.
A little.
“One thing before we start.” She looked into Mark’s probing eyes. “Where would you time travel if you could?”
“Paris in the time of Louis XIV,” he replied right away. “I’ve been to Versailles, but it’s a museum now, and I’d love to walk around in it when it was still used as a palace.”
Cleo stared at him. She had also chosen Paris during those days. So romantic and glamorous.
“And your favorite reading posture?” she asked.
“On my stomach, of course. Is there any other reading posture?”
“You’re pulling my leg.” Cleo tilted her head. “Somehow you managed to lay hands on my answers and you copied them.”
“Cheating?” Mark leaned back his weight, his ice blue eyes sparking. “Now why would I do that?”
Cleo’s cheeks grew warm. “I can’t see you lying on your stomach reading a book. On the shiny laminate of your big city apartment?”
