Page 38 of Touch My Shelves

POPPY

“Args!” I yell and pull my hair. This isn’t working. I’d come down to the carriage house to work on the floorplan of the new store thinking it would be easier to lay it out on a larger area. Everything is moving forward with reopening the store. All they are waiting on to start work is my final designs for remodeling the current space.

I’d like to be in and open when the week-long Buccaneer Days events kick off. I know we’ll be cutting it short, but I believe we can do it. I’ve already got inventory ordered. Some display units will be purchased and some will be made on site to fit the area. That’s the way it was in my previous store.

This place is bigger than the old place, though. You’d think bigger is better, right? Wrong. I can’t get the same homey, come-sit-down-and-read-a-book vibe like I had before. Then there’s the problem of what to do with the entire other side. I won’t have enough inventory to fill it, so maybe I’ll close it off until I can figure it out.

Ideally, Naudi would upset her entire life, move down here, and open her own fashion line. That’s my dream anyway. I don’t know, maybe later I can offer some type of classes or author signings.

I move the blocks I’m using as placeholders for bookshelves around the blueprint and then stand back and consider how that would look. It doesn’t flow from the murder mystery books to the romantic suspense books.

Nothing works. My life doesn’t work anymore. I had it all and then…

“Args!” I scream again and sweep my arm across the blueprint, throwing the “displays” to the tile floor.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Holy shit!” I whip around, quickly discerning there is no danger, and then I attempt to get my rapidly beating heart in rhythm. When I look up again, I have to work even harder to slow my breathing for an entirely different reason when I see Brax in all his sweaty, glistening glory.

He must be coming from a workout in the gym. I drink in the low-hung sweats and white t-shirt pulled tight across his chest. There’s a large area in front soaked in sweat, and his pecs strain the seams with each breath he takes.

Even his dark hair is wet and rumpled, making me wonder if he upended a water bottle over his head and then shook it like a dog shakes its fur. My fingers are dying to run through those damp strands and mess them up even more.

“Sorry. I…” I look back at the mess I’ve made in the room. “I’m working on the design for the new store.”

Surveying the disarray, he comments, “And by the look of things, it’s not going well.”

“You could say that.” I bend and begin to pick up the books, pens, notepads, and blocks I’d knocked off.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Brax offers and starts to pick things up.

We reach for the same book and hit our heads together as we rise. We both rub the sore spots and I can’t help but return his grin. How silly was that?

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“No problem. I shouldn’t have made such a mess.”

When he doesn’t reply, I look up and find his gaze wandering down my body. I never expected to see anyone when I made the decision to leave my room for the carriage house. I must look a fright. My hair is pulled up onto the top of my head in a very messy ponytail and I’m wearing another donated t-shirt—this one readsbe a kind human—and a pair of stretchy shorts like my grandma wears.

I’ve been amazed at the donated items I’ve received by the wonderfully kind citizens of Faire Island. I’m grateful for their generosity. Thanks to Naudi, and a package in the mail, I do have a few pieces of my own style now. I can’t wait to feel like myself again when I’m able to purchase my own wardrobe.

All of that to say I look like a hot mess and Brax is checking me out. Hard. Like the kind of checking out that leads to happy time between the sheets. That’s not going to happen. I can’t handle another rejection from him.

I finish cleaning the floor and drop the rest of the items on the table. I glance up to connect with a gaze so intense it makes me lightheaded.

“It’s fine. I was just concerned.”

He tears his eyes away and moves closer to the blueprints laid out on the table between us. “This is the store layout?” he asks, leaning over the drawing.

A waft of his scent tickles my nose and memories of being held in his arms rush through my head. Gripping the edge of the table keeps my weak knees from buckling. “Yeah,” I say, gruffly.

He leans closer to the papers. “You’re trying to place fixtures?”

A rivulet of sweat drops from his hair and meanders its way down his forehead, cheek, neck, and disappears into the fabric of his drenched t-shirt. I shake my head to clear the image of licking him. “I am. Just not very well, I’m afraid.”

His brows knit together as he surveys the space. He points to the front of the building. “You have two windows.”

How can a sweaty man smell so tempting? “I do, but I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I don’t need this much space.”

---