by Jane Porter
She blushed. “You’re the one with expert lips.”
He smiled, amused, and then his smile faded and he brushed his thumb across her sensitive lips. “I think I just like kissing you.”
Her heart did a double beat. “I’ve tried so hard to keep you at arm’s length. I even tried to hate you. It didn’t work.”
“Why hate me?”
“Two dogs, one bone, that sort of thing.”
“There are other bones,” he answered, dipping his head to place a kiss on her forehead, and then the tip of her nose.
“Yes, but you really want this place.”
“Not as much as I want you happy.”
“Kissing you made me happy.”
“A note to self,” he said, kissing her on the mouth, with a slow, warm lingering kiss, “which makes me wonder if we’re going about this wrong.”
“Going about what wrong?”
“You, me, the bookstore.”
She still felt deliciously fuzzy from the kisses, and she wasn’t sure she was following. Correction, she knew she wasn’t following. She wasn’t able to focus at all. “I’m afraid kissing you has fogged my brain. What are you saying?”
“We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We should team up. Partner with each other.”
Rachel slid off his lap and reclaimed her spot on the small couch. A moment ago she felt deliciously alive, humming with lovely sensation, but the lovely warmth was fading and she just felt confused.
“Maybe we’ve been approaching this business transaction all wrong,” he added. “Maybe we’re supposed to do something together.”
“How?”
“We create a partnership here in Montana, combine our interests—”
“But our interests are in opposition.”
“Are they? Why can’t we do something jointly with the bookstore?”
Rachel jumped off the couch and crossed to the kitchen where she leaned against a counter. Her pulse was thudding but not with good emotion. She struggled to contain the panic.
“I don’t think…” She swallowed hard, and tried again. “I don’t know. I’m not sure this is a good idea. We have different goals. We want different things.”
“I’m simply saying I think we should have a conversation about how we could work together, that’s all. We get along well. I think we’d be good partners.”
“Business partners.”
“Not necessarily just business.”
He’d just made her feel the most wonderful things. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so alive, or optimistic, but this, what he was suggesting, filled her with unease, if not downright dread.
“I’m overwhelming you,” he said.
“A little,” she admitted.
“It’s just a thought.”
She nodded, and forced herself to smile. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“You’re right.” He rose and went to her, and kissed her on the forehead. “I probably should have waited.”
“No, I’m glad you brought it up. It’s good to know what you’re thinking,” she answered, because it was, and now she could be prepared, and cautious.
She’d loved kissing him tonight, but she was horrified by his suggestions. He had plans, and so did she, and there was safety in plans. There was a reason for their plans.
Downstairs at the door, he kissed her good night, kissing her with the same heat and passion he’d shown upstairs, kissing her until her skin prickled and her veins felt like they were full of honey and hot wine, and when the kiss ended, he stepped away and gave her a faint smile.
“You are hard to resist, Rachel Mills,” he said before lifting his coat from the coatrack and walking out in the night.
Rachel closed the door behind him, locked it, and then stood at the door a moment, fist pressed to her mouth as she watched him disappear. She liked him. She liked him more than she’d liked anyone in years, and tonight he’d made her feel pleasure and hope and happiness, but now she wondered if she’d imagined all those good feelings. Emotions were dangerous, and not to be trusted.
She’d come to Marietta for the bookstore. She’d come to make decisions, and figure out her future, not fall in love with Atticus and throw caution to the wind.
*
Taylor Sheenan arrived not long after Rachel opened the bookstore the next day.
“I couldn’t sleep very well last night,” Taylor said. “I feel really bad about not doing more to support your party.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine—”
“It’s not your fault. You’ve only just arrived in town and you don’t know anyone yet. It’s not easy being the new person in town. I know, because when I first moved here, it took me a long time to feel like I belonged.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “If I hadn’t met Troy, I don’t know if I would have stayed in Marietta. He has a huge family, five brothers, and they’re all married. I should have reached out to them and asked them to come to your open house.”
“Grey’s Saloon had a crowd last night,” Rachel said.
“They always get a crowd when they have popular bands.”
Rachel hadn’t even realized Grey’s was having a band in until Atticus mentioned it last night, but then, it hadn’t crossed her mind that there would be competition, either. “Lesson learned,” she said lightly. “Next time I’ll be better prepared.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Say what?”
“Next time. So you will do another party?”
“Well, I’m sure I will… someday.”
“How about tonight, during the Marietta Stroll?”
Rachel frowned. “If I can’t compete with Grey’s, how can I compete with the stroll, although to be perfectly honest, I don’t fully understand the stroll.”
“It’s Marietta’s annual Christmas event. It’s half street party, half festival. All the stores on Main Street stay open, and there are horse drawn wagons through town, the lighting of the big tree at the courthouse, plus Santa and the gingerbread competition at the Graff. It’s the perfect time for everyone to rediscover the bookstore.”
“I’m not so sure Marietta cares about the bookstore anymore.”
“Maybe they don’t really know you’ve reopened. Maybe you need more of a presence.”
“I redid the window display, on both sides.”
“And you did a great job. The store looked gorgeous last night with your Christmas tree and holiday buffet. Now we just need to get people inside.”
“You really think my windows are enough?” Rachel asked, suddenly anxious as she peeked at the colorful children’s books balancing on vintage wooden crates. It wasn’t a Macy’s window, but it was better than the Valentine display that had been there for nearly three years.
“I do.”
“And you think I should participate in the stroll tonight?”
“Most definitely. Everyone up and down Main Street will be staying open now until the end of the stroll, which typically ends around nine.”
“Do any of the businesses serve wine or food?”
“They do, and this would be the perfect occasion if you still had any party leftovers.”
“Taylor, I could feed an army with all my meatballs, cookies, and cakes.”
“Sounds like you’re having another party.” Taylor smiled. “And this time cleanup will be a breeze. There won’t be hardly any food or drink left after the stroll ends.”
*
Taylor was right.
The Marietta Stroll was a busy, crowded event and thanks to the frosted sign, WE’RE OPEN, painted on her windows by a friend of Taylor’s, people flocked in. But even before the stroll kicked off, deliveries were made to the bookstore, gifts from other businesses on Main Street. Risa sent flowers, Sage sent salted caramels, and Rachel Vaughn delivered a tray of gingerbread cookies in the shape of books, each book iced and then wrapped in clear cellophane.
And just when R
achel Mills didn’t think she could handle another sweet surprise, Sadie Douglas arrived with her husband Rory and climbed into her window and went to work moving the crates around, and removed some books, and then lifted a set of hardback books from the trunk. The books were all stuck together, possibly glued, and Sadie placed this on top of a crate she’d turned upside down, making it taller.
Rachel bit her tongue to keep from saying anything that would sound ungrateful, and yet she didn’t understand what Sadie was doing, but Rory clearly did because he kept handing her tools and then connecting lights, and adjusting another crate so that the odd book thingy was higher.
“That’s interesting,” Rachel finally said, trying to hide her panic because Sadie had completely destroyed her window display. Now there were only three of the picture books in the windows with the crates and the massive set of hardback books that now had lights shining out of the back.
“Not done yet,” Sadie said, flashing Rachel a smile.
“Mmm,” Rachel answered, still not reassured because Sadie’s own store window was beautiful while Paradise Books’s front window reminded Rachel of a yard sale.
Sadie was now sprinkling faux powdered snow across the top of a crate, in front of the hardback books, before adding a small figure. Sadie fiddled about another few minutes before nodding her head. “Perfect,” she said, climbing out of the window and dusting her knees off. “Rachel, go outside, have a look, and tell me what you think.”
Outside, Rachel stood in front of the window facing Main Street and blinked in surprise as she realized that the set of hardback books was actually a street of nineteenth-century townhomes, and each spine was a different house, with miniature windows glued to the spines, and unique doors on the base of each book. Some of the houses had window boxes and others had little slate roofs. One had steps. Another had a gate for a carriage. And there in front of one of the handsome wooden doors was a little mouse dressed in a white shirt with a green vest, just like the mouse on Mouse’s Christmas Gift.
“It’s a mouse town,” she said in wonder, thinking she couldn’t wait to show Atticus this, before realizing he hadn’t been in yet today, which was unusual.
“I heard via the grapevine you wanted a Nativity set and a mouse,” Sadie said, standing next to her and admiring her handiwork. “I couldn’t find a Nativity scene, but I made a mouse for you. I hope you like it.”
“I do. It’s perfect,” Rachel answered, bowled over by Sadie’s thoughtfulness.
*
The stroll was just as perfect, with dozens of families streaming in and out, while a quartet of Dickens carolers sang outside on the doorstep. Nearly everyone that came in snagged a cookie and sampled the punch, before wandering around the store, pausing to admire the fresh fragrant Christmas tree. A number of people asked about the Christmas books in the window and Rachel realized that if she was going to keep the store open, she would need to order in children’s books like the ones in the window display. But everyone she talked to was delighted the store was open, and shared stories with her about Lesley. Lesley was loved and missed, and Rachel vowed to pass the messages on.
The only person who didn’t come by was Atticus and Rachel tried to tell herself it was fine, but the fact that she missed him as much as she did meant she wasn’t really fine. It was just that he was the one person she’d expected to put in an appearance, and when he didn’t, she wasn’t sure what to do with her disappointment. His absence made her realize she was already attached to him, and she had strong feelings for him—terrible, wonderful feelings—and she’d never be able to think of Marietta without thinking of him.
But finally the crowds from the stroll dispersed and the traffic on the street dwindled to nothing. She’d just begun to throw all the leftovers away when Atticus arrived, and her pulse quickened when he walked through the front door.
“I didn’t think I was going to see you tonight,” she said, feeling ridiculously relieved to finally see him.
“It’s been a tough day. I’ve had to spend most of it on the phone looking for a new head chef for the San Francisco Galveston.”
“Oh, dear. That doesn’t sound fun.”
“It wasn’t, and I missed the stroll. Was it as wonderful as everyone said?”
“People seemed happy, and the bookstore was never empty.”
“I take it you never left the store.”
She shook her head. “But I wasn’t lonely. All the Sheenans came to meet me, and there are a lot of them.”
“Yes, there are.” He smiled. “Let’s stroll down Main Street before all the lights have been turned off.”
She did like the sound of that and quickly bundled up and locked the door. Atticus took her hand as they walked down the middle of the street because cross traffic was still blocked off. Some of the stores still glowed with lights, while others had gone dark for the night. They walked the length of Main Street and were starting back when Atticus took her on a detour, heading down Third Street and then over onto Church where they walked another block before stopping in the middle of a residential area.
“That’s your house,” Atticus said.
“My house?” she echoed, confused.
“Your mom’s house. The one where your mom and grandparents lived in Marietta.”
Rachel blinked, shocked. “This was Mom’s house?”
He nodded.
She couldn’t believe it. “How did you find out?”
“I’m good at finding out things.”
Her gaze swept the small white, single-story house. The house still had its original wooden windows, and a narrow front porch. The current owners had strung Christmas lights along the edge of the steeply pitched roof, the white icicle light variety, and red-and-white candy canes lined the narrow cement walkway. It was tidy but sweet, and not far from the schools at the end of the street. “Mom would have been able to walk to school every day,” she said.
“Lesley’s childhood home was on the same street, just a block south, closer to St. James. I have a feeling they walked to school together.”
His words made her ache, and she blinked hard, clearing the stinging sensation from her eyes. She hadn’t thought of Mom in so long and now it seemed like her mother was everywhere. “Marietta would have been a wonderful place to grow up. It’s reassuring. Makes me believe she had a good life. I hope she did.”
“I think she was happy here,” he answered. “She certainly had good friends. Just look at Lesley.”
Rachel nodded. “I think she was happy with my dad, too.”
“How was she as a mom?”
“Loving. Funny. I think she used to laugh a lot.” She blinked hard, fighting tears. “Back before she was sick.”
“I have a feeling you remember more than you think you do.”
“I don’t want to remember it wrong.”
“Just love her, and you won’t get it wrong.”
She exhaled hard. “That’s where it gets tricky.” She looked at him and then looked away. “I was mad at her for a long time. Mad at her for dying. Mad at her for making my high school years all about her.” Her voice broke and she drew a shuddering breath. “I have hated myself for that. I’m not a very loving person.”
Atticus reached out and carefully adjusted her knit cap on her head, pulling the edge down on one side and then the other. “You were a girl that lost her mom. Why wouldn’t you be angry?”
“But at her? How was it her fault?”
“It wasn’t, but she was your mom. She was supposed to make you feel safe, and suddenly she’s ill and you realize that the world is a dangerous place.”
His words were like a shot to the heart. She opened her mouth, closed it, pain suffusing her. She’d been alone with her mom when she died and the grief had been overwhelming.
What did she do with so much grief?
“I don’t like emotions,” she said huskily.
“I can understand that. They’re tough for you. I mean, where do you put them on your vision
board?”
She laughed even as the pinch in her chest deepened, because many a truth was said in jest, and he was oh, so very right. There was no room in her life for emotions. She’d made sure of that. “You’re beginning to know me a little too well.”
“Fortunately, I like who you are.”
That made her chest tighten with yet more emotion. She was feeling so much, possibly too much. And yet, being here, seeing her mother’s former house, was wonderful. Glancing at the small house, she could almost see her mom sitting on the front porch in summer, and skipping down the steps on her way to a date. “This is pretty cool,” she whispered. “Thank you. I feel like you’ve given a little bit of Mom back to me.”
Chapter Eight
Atticus took Rachel’s hand as they walked back to the bookstore. Rachel had gone quiet and he glanced down at her, thinking things were definitely not simple anymore.
He filled the silence by talking to her about his family, and how they’d spent holidays in Texas. His grandparents owned a beach house on Galveston and they’d often celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas there—
“That’s why you’ve named your restaurants Galveston,” she interrupted.
He nodded. “I have great memories of the island. My dad’s family has lived there since the late 1880s, and were there during the Galveston hurricane of 1900.”
“I’ve never heard of the storm.”
“It’s considered the deadliest natural disaster in American history. Thousands died, and nearly every house on the island was damaged or destroyed. Many people moved to Houston. My dad’s family stayed.”
“Do you ever feel like you should be there?”
He shook his head. “My brother is there—”
“You have a brother?”
“I haven’t mentioned him?”
“No.”
“Holden was an oops baby, created on my parents fifteenth anniversary getaway.”
“Sorry to interrupt again,” Rachel said. “But isn’t Holden another literary name?”
“Holden Caulfield, from Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.”
“Your mother really does love her books.”
“In this case, Holden was partially my father’s responsibility. Salinger’s novel was his favorite book from high school.” Atticus smiled wryly. “He likes to tell me he got the better name, but obviously I disagree.”