Page 23 of Knot in Bloom
Is there anything I could help you with at the bookstore? As a thank you for all the coffee and help with the flood cleanup?
I stare at the message. She’s offering to help. Which means she’s thinking about ways to spend time with me. Maybe she’s been thinking about us as much as I’ve been thinking about her.
I could suggest organizing the front displays or updating the bestseller wall. Instead I find myself typing.
Actually, yes. I’ve been putting off inventory for weeks. Could use another pair of eyes if you don’t mind staying after closing time.
Her response comes fast.Perfect. What time?
Eight PM? I’ll leave the back door unlocked.
See you then.
Three hours. I have three hours to decide if I’m finally going to be honest about how I feel, or if I’m going to keep pretending this is just friendly help.
I spend the time alternating between rearranging the reading nook and talking myself out of being nervous. By eight o’clock, the space looks different in evening light. Softer, with shadows pooling in corners and lamplight catching the spines of well-loved books.
I’ve set out wine and two glasses on the counter. Not obviously romantic, just thoughtful. The inventory sheets are spread across the table in the reading nook where we’ll have to sit close together.
At eight exactly, I hear her knock at the back door.
When I open it, my brain goes blank.
She’s changed from her work clothes into dark jeans that hug her curves and a cream sweater that looks impossibly soft. Her honey-colored hair falls in waves around her shoulders instead of being pulled back.
But it’s her scent that hits me hardest. That sweet honeysuckle and vanilla I’ve memorized over months of coffee visits, now richer with an undertone that makes blood rush south.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless.
“Hi.” I step aside to let her in, trying not to inhale too obviously as she moves past me. “Thanks for offering to help with this. I know you’ve had a long day.”
“Thank you for letting me.” She looks around the bookstore, taking in the wine and glasses, the carefully arranged materials. “This looks much more pleasant than most bookkeeping I’ve done.”
“I believe in making tedious tasks more bearable.” The words come out steadier than I feel.
She turns to face me with a smile, close enough that I can see her pulse fluttering at her throat. Close enough to catch how her pupils dilate slightly when she breathes in my cedar and leather scent. “That’s a philosophy I can appreciate.”
We look at each other and tension builds between us. When she notices the wine, her expression brightens.
“Wine for inventory?” she asks with a small smile.
“I figured if we’re going to be counting dusty books, we might as well make it pleasant.”
“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that nervous gesture I’ve learned to recognize. “Where should we start?”
“Historical fiction section,” I hear myself say. “It’s the most complex to track since the inventory system doesn’t account for series properly.”
She follows me to the back corner where I’ve arranged everything, settling onto the cushioned bench beside the low table and tucking her legs under her. The position makes her sweater ride up slightly, showing a glimpse of soft skin at her waist that makes my hands ache to touch.
I pour wine while she examines the inventory sheets, trying not to stare at how the lamplight catches gold highlights in her hair. Her scent wraps around me, making it hard to focus onanything but how she worries her lower lip between her teeth when she’s concentrating.
“This is quite a collection,” she says, accepting the glass. Our fingers brush during the handoff and electricity shoots up my arm, while her pupils dilate in response. “You have authors I’ve never heard of mixed in with classics I loved in college.”
“Historical fiction is a passion of mine,” I admit, settling beside her close enough to catch her full scent but not so close that I’m crowding her. “Stories that find meaning in ordinary moments between extraordinary events.”
“Like what?”
I reach for a well-worn copy nearby and flip to a marked passage about loyalty forged through shared struggles. “This author writes about how people create family out of necessity and choice. It reminds me of how you’ve built community here. How you remember what everyone needs, how you show up when people are struggling.”
