Page 27 of The One Night Dash
Angie works five days a week, noon until six. The two employees who were here when I bought the place both moved out of the city, and the old owners moved to Florida. Instead of hiring replacements, I’ve done it alone to save money.
Sofie’s been on my case about that for months. “Hire someone, NoNo. Give yourself space to breathe, write, live.”She’s busier than I am but carves out time for exactly what she wants, maneuvering her schedule until it works. One of those things is covering games for Fairfax Media’s sports division; it’s below her pay grade, but the access to a VIP luxury box is a win for her and a win for all of us.
The bell chimes, and the door opens. I hitpostto the online classified. Step one in hiring additional staff is now complete.
The next three hours, I nearly forget about my couple, who is telling me their story, and get wrapped up in this, our bookstore,mine and Dad’s.
A trio of NYU students flood the children’s section, hunting for picture books for a literacy outreach project. I load them up with extras, and they promise to return. A tourist with a crumpled map asks for “something very New York.” A retired professor corners me in the history aisle, wanting a recommendation on Civil War memoirs. At the same time, a couple from Ohio marvels over the shop like they’ve stumbled into a movie set. A woman in a navy suit drops in between meetings, buys a paperback thriller and a lavender tea tin, and leaves with her phone wedged to her ear. Business on the brain, but her escape is waiting for her when she’s ready to put her day behind her.
Every time the bell jingles, someone new steps into the store. A dad pushes a stroller and buys three board books, grinning sheepishly as he admits he’s memorizedGoodnight Moonand“needs something new.”Two girls giggle in the romance section, tugging books off shelves and daring each other to read the blurbs aloud. I remember fondly the first time I was brave enough to buy a steamy romance.
The register hums, the floorboards creak, the scent of fresh coffee drifts from the back, and I move in the middle of it all, restocking shelves, chatting, recommending, and bagging up books I love.
By the time the flow slows and the bell finally quiets, I realize how swept up I was. My cheeks ache from smiling. My voice is hoarse from talking. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.
“That was quite the rush.” Angie nods toward the stairs, “Now go while you have the chance.”
When I finish readingover the words from last night, my heart does a little skip, and my lips turn up.
I may never publish this, but I refuse to stop.
I flex my fingers and begin typing.
The bell over the door jingles as I step into the shop, the smell of dark roast and warm cinnamon hitting me like it always does. Normally, it’s comforting. Today, it’s a reminder.
Of last night.
My cheeks warm just thinking about it—his mouth, his hands, the way he felt inside of me. I’d convinced myself it would be mortifying this morning, that he’d barely look at me, maybe regret it.
Instead, Emmett is already behind the bar, rolling up his sleeves as he pulls a shot of espresso like nothing has changed. Except, it has.
He glances up, and the second our eyes lock, the air crackles. No shame. No apologies. Just heat.
“Morning, Sandra,” he says, like my name is a secret flavor only he knows how to order.
I duck behind the counter, sliding into my apron. “Morning,” I manage, praying my voice doesn’t betray the riot happening in my chest.
The space back here has never felt small before, but today, every brush of his arm, every lean past me for syrups or mugs, feels deliberate. His hand grazes mine when he passes me the milk pitcher, and I nearly spill it.
“Careful,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “Wouldn’t want another mess.” His smirk tells me he’s not talking about coffee.
The first customers file in—a pair of moms in yoga pants ordering iced lattes, a suited businessman barking into his phone—and I go through the motions like normal. But Emmett’s presence hums at my back, close enough that when he reaches past me to grab the caramel drizzle, his chest brushes my shoulder.
I glance at him, and he doesn’t look away. Not once. Not even when the customer is watching.
By the time the shift ends and it’s time to close, my skin is buzzing.
He sets a fresh cappuccino on the counter and leans in, his arm brushing mine as he wipes down the bar. “So,” he says softly, his voice carrying just enough to tangle with the hiss of steaming milk. “Still awkward for you?”
I force myself to meet his eyes, and what I find there makes my breath hitch. Desire, sure. But also certainty. He’s not doubting what happened last night. He’s daring me to.
“No,” I whisper back, my lips barely moving. “Not even close.”
His grin is slow, wicked, like he already knew my answer. And suddenly, the space between us feels smaller than ever.
The shop is technically closed, but Emmett doesn’t care. He locks the door, flips the sign to “Closed,” and stalks toward me like I’m the last cup of coffee in the world worth drinking.
“You’ve been tempting me all day,” he growls, backing me against the counter. His hands bracket my hips, strong barista hands that smell faintly of roasted beans and cinnamon. “Do you have any idea what that does to a man, Sandra?”
