Half an hour later, Claire is just starting to stir when a soft tap sounds at the door.
I move quickly to fetch the giant tray, setting it on the coffee table as Claire sits up, blinking as she stares around the room like a kitten waking up.
Damn, I wish I could take some photos of her at this moment, but she’d likely kill me. Her hair is a sexy wild mess, the sheet barely covers her breasts, and one sculpted leg is sticking out the side. My God.
I’m sitting beside her with my arm around her shoulders before I even realize I’m moving. “Good morning, sweetie. Are you hungry?”
Claire blinks hard again, then inhales sharply. “I am now. Scrambled eggs?”
“Yes, I just got a bunch of stuff. And tea, of course.”
Her saucy grin is positively ravishing. “Thank you.”
I back away to give her some space, as she grabs her little overnight bag and disappears into the bathroom.
I’m astonished that she reappears only five minutes later looking completely put together. Her dark gray dress is plain, and looks comfortable, which is likely the point.
I arrange the food, and we eat while chatting about some of Claire’s stranger relatives that I met last night. “How often does your family get together?” I ask.
“It depends,” she says, nibbling a piece of brown toast. “It seems to go in phases. For holidays, it’s usually just immediate family, and a handful of extras. Then the entire circle of family and close friends turns out for engagement parties, baby showers, weddings and funerals.”
Claire notices I become quiet for a second, and she places her hand over mine. “I’m sorry about your father,” she barely breathes. “Besides your mom, do you have any other family?”
“I have an uncle. My mother’s brother. But I hardly ever see him. Just a Christmas card every year.”
“Well, I’m glad you have your mom,” she murmurs softly.
“You say that now, wait until you have to deal with the woman for long stretches of time,” I laugh.
“I hope she likes me.” The nervousness in her voice is crystal clear.
“Trust me, if she hadn’t liked you on sight, I would’ve gotten several phone calls and texts. Probably full of emoji’s.”
Her laugh is sweetly airy, as I realize my hand is on her thigh again. She looks up at me with a strange smile. “I really like this.”
“Breakfast?”
“Well, yes. But I meant...this. Just hanging out with you.”
“Me too, sweetie.”
It was incredible to think that I was able to just lean in and kiss this dainty yet fiery girl whenever I wanted. It was also hard to believe that I knew I could have picked her up and carried her to the bed any second.
But that wouldn’t be caring for her. Her delicate body might not be up for that again so soon. I wasn’t sure how sore she might be, and waiting for at least a day or two felt like the right thing to do.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Fine.” She looks at me, then watches my eyebrow raise.
“Oh. That.” I swear she almost blushes. “Good, actually.”
My hand strokes her lower back, finding the little curve at the base of her spine where my palm fits perfectly.
Then I remember that I’ve been caring for her body, but I really should make sure to check in on her heart too. This whole relationship thing is so awkward, since I don’t know the rules.
I’ll have to check later to see if anyone has had the foresight to write a book entitled The care and feeding of your girlfriend’s precious heart, for crusty loners who don’t have a clue .
I would one-click that sucker immediately.
Claire pushes her plate away and pulls her knees up onto the couch to cuddle into my side while I rub her back.
“I’ve never been in a real relationship before,” I murmur into her hair. “Feel free to tell me if I mess anything up, or you need me to do something I’m not doing, okay?”
She nods emphatically. “That goes double for me. I’ve always been sort of nervous around guys, so let me know if I’m being a weirdo.”
“You’re my kind of weirdo.” Picking her up, I place her across my lap so that her back is resting on the curved edge of the couch and her face is at the same level as mine.
I’m not sure when check out is, but there’s no harm in making out with my sexy girl until then.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
~ Claire ~
Monday mornings I used to be a bit sluggish, and would wander into work still blinking and trying to figure out what was going on with the world.
But today, after a twenty minute chat with Shane at the cafe, followed by a short walk with his arm around me, I’m completely energized.
“What are your big plans for today, sweetie?” Shane smiles down at me.
“Well, my pitch for the new products is a week from this morning, so I’ll probably be working on that” I tell him, trying to keep the nervousness from my voice.
“It’s going to be great. Don’t worry.”
I love his automatic confidence in me, even though he doesn’t know the details. “I have a ton of ideas, I just need to do a little more research. I haven’t found anything that’s completely new and striking.”
Shane half chuckles as we stop in front of my office building. “Do people really need their notebooks to be striking? I always thought of them as utilitarian.”
“For some people, yes. But people also love to buy themselves treats. Their work feels more important if it’s jotted down in a lavish book. It’s a sensory thing – the fine paper, the beautiful sound it makes as you turn the page.”
He smiles politely, but his eyes crinkle with amusement. “I don’t think of a to-do list as poetry, but okay.”
“Different sorts of people want different sorts of things,” I explain, knowing that he still might not understand, but that’s all right. “That’s why we usually have a line with a basic version, a middle quality version, and a luxury version. People can pick whatever suits them.”
“So you dream up these things, make a sample, then if your boss likes it, the project goes into manufacturing and they make hundreds of them?”
“Thousands upon thousands, depending on the line. Sometimes even millions.”
“Wow.” He nods. “That’s impressive.”
His hands slide around my shoulders then down my back as he pulls me close. “My gorgeous little notebook princess.”
That sounds so ridiculous that I giggle against his chest, but honestly, he can call me the princess of anything and I’ll just melt.
He rocks me slightly. “I know I don’t know a lot about what you do yet, but I’m incredibly proud of you for working so hard, and taking on all of this responsibility when you’re barely out of school.”
I look up to see his eyes shining. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His hand slides down to gently tap my butt. “Give ’em hell today, sweetie.”
As we kiss in the early morning sunshine, I’m not even embarrassed or nervous anymore. The impossible electrical current that zips back and forth between us is becoming normal. I’m getting used to it. Which is even more strange.
“Have a great day.” His lips press to my forehead, then he steps back to watch me walk inside.
As soon as I settle in my office, I skim through my email, responding quickly to anything that can be taken care of in a couple minutes or less.
The only message that remains when I’m done is one requiring more attention, the one from Mr. Edgar asking how many product lines I’ll be pitching at next week’s meeting.
As always, I pull out my largest notebook that I use for scribbling work ideas. It always helps me to see things laid out in a linear fashion.
One. A spring and summer line of pastel notebooks and day planners with the standard internal layouts, plus a few tiny leaf and flower sketches in the corners and on the monthly divider pages.
Plus bookmarks made of recy
cled paper with real flower seeds embedded in them. Just rip into squares and soak in water before planting. Nobody will actually do this of course, but it’s a fun thing to think about.
Two. The modern line of business and student planners with peppy inspirational quotes at the start of each week. The covers and matching pens are all in colors inspired by the newest lines of furniture and decor across three enormous retailers.
Three. The eco-minimalist line. Recycled paper that feels buttery soft to the touch. Dot grid notebooks so people can create their own systems.
Pens and mechanical pencils wrapped in a thin sheet of cork, or a heavy sheet of recycled paper. Metal refillable pens, with zero plastic. One of them has a bamboo case that can be embossed with a name, or inspirational quote.
I have a really good feeling about that line. It’s hitting every single trend for that demographic, and the latest manufacturing samples turned out perfect.
Four. The men’s line. No. The masculine line. No. The industrial line? Notebooks for folks who work places like a metal shop?
I really need a catchy name for my pet project.
Notebooks for people, probably dudes, who don’t care about notebooks, but probably need one now and then.
That might be a bit too long.
Instead of a traditional day planner that requires a lot of writing, I had something made in a different triangular stand up style, so a slim calendar could sit right on someone’s desk or workbench. Or the counter of a shop.
Just something to jot down important dates and meetings. Many people use their phone for everything else anyway, but a solid visual reminder right in front of you can be helpful.
Brushed steel pens and mechanical pencils had just arrived from a new Swiss manufacturer who was shockingly affordable. Maybe they were brand new and trying to prove themselves.They would be perfect for the writing instruments.
For the notebooks, I had Jim over at the printing plant mock up a couple of standard notebooks in papers we’ve never really used before.
Most journallers prefer bright white paper so that their fancy colored markers pop.
But men who are just using a basic pen don’t care about that. So I’d had books made in light gray, a soft coffee brown, and a slightly tinted blue. Muted colors that would disguise smudges from oil stained fingers.
The only thing I don’t have yet is a really cool cover material.
Pushing the list aside, I go through every sample book again, moving my colored sticky notes around accordingly. By lunch, I realize I needed to step away from the whole thing. Take a mental break. Something refreshing.
Checking my phone, there are two texts.
Shane: I hope you’re not stressed, sweetie. You’ve got this. Just take your time.
I respond immediately.
Me: You are absolutely wonderful. Thank you.
The other message is from my mother.
Mom: So nice to meet your friend this weekend. I tried to look up his antique shop, but I think there’s something wrong with the website. There’s only one page.
Me: Thanks – I’ll look into it.
Calling up the website for Edwards Antiques and Restorations again, I take a more critical look at the website.
Oh boy.
It wasn’t just basic, it was retro in an almost sad way.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my notebook is out again as I research other antique shops to see what their websites look like. I check a variety of stores,both high-end and low-end, and the thing the websites all have in common was that they look like they were created in this decade.
Although I’m not an expert by any means, I do have a simple website building program on my work computer. Perhaps immersing myself in a completely different project for an hour can shake my brain loose.
Plus, it will be incredibly satisfying to do something to help Shane. He’s been so wonderful to me that I want to find a way to show him how I felt.
Since I’m certainly not about to buy flowers for my huge sexy boyfriend, perhaps designing a quick little website could be a romantic gesture.
A little extra curricular learning project on my lunch break could also be creatively inspiring. It's certainly worth a shot.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
~ Shane ~
One thing I truly enjoy about my restoration shop and the antique store was that things tend to be steady. Sure, more people shop right before the holidays, and there are more repairs in the fall, for some reason, but overall, the ebb and flow of customers is relatively calm.
I don’t think anything about the two calls I got on Monday afternoon from women looking for very specific pieces.
But Tuesday there are a few calls as well, and a new interior decorator comes by in the afternoon. She basically takes as much as she could fit in her weird little trendy car.
I’m not the type of guy to get freaked out, ever. But this is past curiosity. I need to know what the hell is going on.
Because as the bell clangs behind the twentieth customer today, this has been my busiest Wednesday afternoon ever. Since I need to close in ten minutes, I grab the broom so that if anyone else arrives they’ll get the hint.
I’ve had it with people for today, and the thought of having to fake a smile for one more customer makes my shoulders tense up.
Naturally, the doorbell rings. Turning, I see my mother strolling in, immediately analyzing the shelves.
Then she spins to face me. “What the hell kind of expression is that to greet a customer?” she snaps. Then she bursts into laughter. “Scrappy, you’re never going to be a people person, are you?”
“You’re not people,” I say gruffly, pointedly sweeping around her. “I’m closing up in a minute.”
“Not until I grab something for Lydia’s birthday,” she says, walking up and down the aisles quickly.
“Damn,” she mutters. “The wrought iron garden lantern is gone.” She walks through another row, as I empty the dust pan into the trash. “You’ve sold quite a bit the past few days.”
“Yeah. Sorry if that’s an inconvenience to your sudden gift-giving.”
Mom’s lips purse as she tries to flatten me with a glare. “You know I dearly love having my very own antique emporium.”
“And that’s the last time you call my shop an emporium.”
“Whatever. Just help me find a birthday gift for Lydia’s garden.”
I walk quickly to the end of the aisle to grab an antique bronze statue of a duck with an umbrella. It’s only a foot high, but the detail is actually pretty impressive.
“Perfect!” Mom squeals like a schoolgirl, clapping her hands. “Gift wrap it in pink.”
“Goddammit,” I mutter, running a microfiber cloth over the duck on my way to the back room. My gift wrapping nook is only used a few times a month, but I’ve finally trained my chunky fingers to work the tape and ribbons quickly.
“I saw those rich women leaving just as I came in. That’s great that sales are picking up.”
“How do you know they were rich?” I ask through the doorway.
Mom huffs. “Trust me, those ladies were rich with a capital R. When you see those boxy, colorful purses they treat like a pet and red soled shoes, that’s serious money.”
I try to picture Claire’s purse and can't. I know her shoulder bag is black with silver trim, because I carry it for her as often as she lets me.
“Scrappy, that’s perfect,” Mom says as I come back to the counter with her gift.
She reaches for the box, but I hold it over her head. “No gifts until you promise to stop calling me that.”
Mom cocks her head, making her white curls bounce. Then she gives me the look.
That look.
The look only a mother can stab you with.
I hand her the package.
“Thanks, honey ,” she says pointedly. “Have a great night, and say hi to your little girlfriend for me.”
I want to tell her that Claire is not a littl
e girlfriend. She’s magical. Incredible. It’s still too early, but I’m positive that she’s the love of my life.
But Mom is already gone, and we really don’t discuss such things anyway.
By the time I get to Claire’s work, she is already a building away, walking toward me. “It’s very sweet of you to walk me to my book club, but I feel bad taking up so much of your time.”
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