Page 62 of The Tattered Gloves
Still smiling from my encounter with Allison, I felt it only grow wider. His words were said from a distance, and I was curious to find him.
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked, finding him in the stockroom, holding the yellow notepad to his chest. I dropped my backpack to the floor as I began to inspect some of the inventory that had come in.
I’d noticed less and less had been arriving in the last few weeks, which felt odd to me. As we geared up for the holidays, I would have guessed it should have been the opposite.Didn’t people buy books as gifts?
“The way you open the door,” he said absently, counting several boxes before scribbling something down.
“What is that?” I finally asked, pointing to the messy pale yellow notepad.
“What? Oh, nothing. Just something I’m working on.”
“And you don’t think I’m able to help?” I challenged, feeling a flutter of confidence.
Maybe it was what Allison had said.
Maybe I was just sick of him carrying that stupid thing around and excluding me.
Maybe I was just bored.
Who knows? But, suddenly, his eyes met mine — those dark green eyes — and I could see him rise to the challenge.
“Okay then,” he agreed. “It’s notes I’ve been taking on the state of the bookstore.”
“The state of it?”
He nodded. “My father has given me until the end of the school year to make it profitable again. If it’s not, he’s going to close it for good.”
My mouth fell open.
This was his store.
His only son.
How could he do such a thing?
“What will happen to it? If it closes, I mean?” I asked, still shocked beyond measure.
“A coffee bar or something equally as stupid. He thinks it would bring in tourists — the antique shoppers and the B and B crowds.”
“I don’t even know what you said in the last part of that sentence,” I confessed.
“Believe me, I wish I didn’t either. But it’s not going to happen. I’m going to keep this store open if it’s the last thing I do. Maybe just to spite him,” he said with a sly grin.
“Well, what can I do?” I asked, more than happy to help.
He seemed genuinely pleased, and he shared his thoughts with me. He’d been busy. There were pages and pages of notes.
Deciding our conversation was better suited for the front of the store, we headed toward the register. I watched as he leaned against the counter, dressed in dark denim and an Avengers T-shirt. While everyone else in Sugar Tree had adapted to the colder temperatures, throwing on wool coats and scarves, Sam seemed perfectly fine in his short-sleeved shirt.
“You look cold. Do you want my jacket?” he asked, stopping in the middle of his explanation on revamping inventory.
“What?” I said, feeling a wave of déjà vu crash around me.
“You’re cold, right?” he confirmed.
“A little,” I admitted.
Before I had the chance to say anything else, he dashed in the back and reappeared within seconds with his jacket, a name-brand fleece everyone in our grade seemed to have. After a moment of hesitation, he simply handed it to me, and I slipped it over my shoulders.
