Page 20 of Like A Daydream
“After you, Your Majesty.”
JT laughs, stepping inside, and Andrew follows him. He doesn’t miss the giant “HELP WANTED” sign in the window. It’s fading, yellowing with age, handwritten with corners curling away from the tape. He’d seen plenty of them in movies, but didn’t know that it’s an actual way to get people to work for you.
He’d thought there was more to being hired for a real job than seeing a sign in the window.
Andrew has never been much of a reader, but he doesn’t think he has to be to know that this place is a vibe. He’s always loved the idea of books, and owning them is cool, but he’s just been too busy to read. Maybe now that he’s essentially off the grid for two months, he can make time.
When he was in college in Boston, and then when he had eventually moved to Raleigh, after two years of bouncing around the AHL, his friend Catalina had dragged him into every Indie Bookstore she could find. It had always been an inside joke with them.
She always swore that she followed him around the country to make him buy books, and he always swore it was because she was in love with him.
In reality, she was just testing the food scenes in new cities before finally heading off to the Culinary Institute of America and then to New York City before heading back to North Carolina. Plus, as soon as he’d been called up, she caught feelings for Mikhail Petrov and had never evenlookedat someone else.
It was a little bit sad, considering Petrov had a long-term girlfriend, but Andrew hated her, and had always quietly hoped that he would see sense and get with Catalina instead.
“Each store has their own flare,” she had told him once, “their own feeling.”
“That can’t be accurate,” he had replied as he followed her into another store.
He had continuously been proven wrong by his own stubborn opinion, finding that every bookstore did, indeed, have its own unique flavor to it. Whether it was design or layout, whether it was the building or the owners or the books they kept stocked on the shelves. Each one was different, and held its own kind of magic.
He’d never say that out loud, though.
The building Spine Crackers is in is clearly historic, the storefront completely windows and full of themed displays that fit the summer season. The polished-walnut floorboards squeak as they walk in, followed by the sound of a bell above the door.
Small round tables and chairs are in one of them, and two older men are playing chess at one while sipping at cups of coffee.
Neatly organized floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls on both sides of the store as far back as he can see, with ladders attached to reach the higher books.
Down the whole middle of the store are shelves that are a few inches shorter than him, stuffed fit to burst with paperback and hard cover books.
A step ladder shelf has a sign that reads ‘blind date with a book’ hanging from it, surrounded by books wrapped in craft paper. The walls are painted in deep, emerald green, and it feels cozy. A place you want to spend time in.
A soft jazz playlist is flooding through the speakers, and a few people are browsing the shelves but not many. Andrew can understand why. When the weather is this nice, the last place he would want to be is inside.
Different strokes for different folks.
“Hey, Jet!” a peppy voice says, turning Andrew’s attention to the counter as JT leaves him. A five-foot something redhead stands behind it, smiling at them both.
“Hey Cara,” JT says, leaning on his elbows on the counter. “I think Ainsley had an order come in she wants me to pick up for her, and my friend Andy and I were hoping to get some coffee.”
“Sure,” the girl, Cara, replies. She has a Raleigh accent and he’s wondering what she’s doing all the way up here. He also has a feeling that he’s seen her before, but can’t connect the dots. “I’ll go grab her order from the back, and you guys can decide what you want for drinks.”
“Thanks,” JT says, turning to Andrew. “What do you want for coffee?”
“The usual,” Andrew says, distracted.
The most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his entire thirty-two years of life is not even a foot away.
She’s standing with a pile of books in her arms, scanning the shelves for something. She smiles when she finds it, and pops a book from her stack between two others.
“Who is that?” He asks JT, pointing. JT knocks his hand down.
“It’s rude to point, didn’t your mom teach you any manners?” he asks, rolling his eyes. “That’s Danielle Spencer. Her parents own this store, but she handles the day-to-day operations. What’s your usual?”
“Vanilla latte, iced,” he says, “with oat milk.”
“Ridiculous,” JT says, “you’re the problem with society.”
