by Viv Royce
“Let me surprise you.” He winked at her and disappeared into the kitchen.
She leaned back and took a sip of her mineral water. No matter how firmly she had tried to talk to herself, something inside didn’t want to listen. Near Mark, a fuzziness enveloped her, whispering that everything was all right and she didn’t have to prove anything. She so wanted to believe he cared for her, for how she felt, for what she did, for what would become of her. That he now thought she was rather tired and he wanted her to sit and rest up a bit. And that he wanted to surprise her. With what?
“Hey.” Lizzie dropped onto Mark’s empty chair and leaned across the table. “He’s too cute,” she whispered.
“Hush, don’t let him hear you say that.”
“He’s in the kitchen. He can’t hear me.” Lizzie beamed at her. “I’m so happy for you. What a perfect guy.”
“We got matched because of the literary likes,” Cleo rushed to say. “There is nothing…” She fell silent. Nothing? She had bought a dress on impulse, had her hair done, dreamed of dancing and seeing the world, with him. She had been pulled from her cocoon at Rook, her safe environment where nothing could faze her, into a big world that was inviting and threatening at the same time. Could she really count on him? He’s leaving again, soon.
“He needs to make an assessment about the shop’s future,” she explained to Lizzie, although Lizzie probably already knew as much. “I’m just being friendly to him to ensure that the assessment is favorable.”
Lizzie tilted her head. “Are you sure? I realize it can be complicated because he is here to sort of…well, become your boss and all, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel attracted to him.”
Her boss. Mark was becoming her boss. What would people think if they struck up a relationship? That she had seduced him into letting her keep her shop? That she wasn’t capable of running it and he indulged her because she was his girlfriend? Or that she mooched off his money, letting her boyfriend keep her in business?
Ugly thoughts, insinuations that would bleed her dry inside.
Lizzie touched her hand. “Look, chances like this don’t come along very often. I mean, meeting someone and having an instant connection. Your literary likes are a twelve out of twenty questions match.”
“There’s more to life than books,” Cleo protested weakly.
“Your life is books. Come on, if I had predicted that a guy would walk into your shop who loved all the same bookish stuff you do, you’d have said you’d snap him up in a heartbeat.”
Yeah, but that would have been easy. Fantasizing about that perfect guy. But what if life threw a curveball? Someone who had walked in as the enemy and then turned into…relationship material? On a personal level. From a business point of view, he was her future boss. Why does this have to be so hard?
“Oh, he’s coming.” Lizzie jumped to her feet. “Glad everything is going well,” she said louder.
Mark carried two high glasses to their table. Each was filled with slices of banana, chocolate chunks, ice cream, pecan nuts, and marshmallows on top. He put them down and grinned at her. “Part healthy, part not-so-healthy. I hope the jogger in you approves?”
“The chocoholic won’t give the jogger a chance to chime in. It looks amazing. Thanks.” Cleo pulled out the spoon and licked off the ice cream. “Banana caramel, one of my favorites. But with ice cream, anything goes. I love raspberry and lemon, oh, and double chocolate. How about you?”
“Blueberry cheesecake is the best.”
…
Mark had made the impromptu decision to do the ice cream thing. It hadn’t been on the list of dessert suggestions, but all the ingredients were there. Even pink and white marshmallows in a large see-through jar that he bet the restaurant owner offered to children when they came with their parents. He had thrown something together without thinking too much about the end result. Every minute spent away from her is one too many. He watched as she savored the ice cream, closing her eyes for a moment. Her face was both excited and still, surrendering to the moment. He bet that to her, right now, there was nothing but chocolate. Too bad he was lousy at the letting-go thing. He was always planning something, going over all the options. A human calculator, he had once been called. Judgmental and totally untrue. They didn’t even know me.
Then who did? He was always observing the action from a distance, not being at the heart of it. But Cleo had reintroduced him to what he had loved in the past: working with kids, enjoying their spontaneity and the way they opened themselves up, easily.
Tonight he wanted to open himself up like that, without second thoughts or reserves. Taste the explosion of ice cream flavors on his tongue like Cleo did, savoring them bite by bite. Digging into the marshmallows like a kid would, feel the perfection of this moment. No past, no future. Only now. The two of them at this table with the candles lit between them and the light reflecting off her face.
Their eyes met, and his breath caught at the intensity in hers. What would it be like to take her sailing, to see her enjoying the rise and fall of the boat as the waves picked it up and took it along? She wouldn’t be afraid. She would take it all in, smiling at him. No, laughing, out loud, throwing her head back.
He needed someone like her in his life. To drag him into the scene. To change him from a bystander into someone who was part of it. Part of her life, her world, where her energy and enthusiasm would rub off on him.
“This is great.” Cleo leaned back and sighed, a happy little sigh of deep contentment. “This night is just…perfect.” She almost whispered the latter word.
Mark wanted to reach across the table and touch her hand. But he was still aware they were not alone here, that there were others at the tables surrounding them, and they might see and whisper and speculate.
“Not quite perfect,” he retorted.
Cleo’s eyes widened a fraction. She seemed to doubt whether she had heard him right. “Not?”
He leaned over. “Too many other people.”
Her eyes locked on his, searching for the meaning behind his words.
He whispered, “Let’s sneak away.”
“But we have to…”
“Help clean up? No, the restaurant will do that. I read the description of the event. Cooking, eating. No dishwashing involved.”
The movement of her mouth betrayed she could barely keep herself from laughing.
“So we can sneak out and see if there are any stars in the sky.”
“Okay.” She spooned up the last bites of banana and rose to her feet. “I’ll tell Lizzie we’re leaving and ask her to finish up with the other participants.”
Cleo crossed the floor to talk to the woman Mark had once seen outside the town’s antique store. She had a tasteful display window, he had decided, not full of non-matching items but well thought-out, reflecting a theme. Or a trend. He didn’t know that much about antiques. Tamela had taken a course once and had gone to a few garage sales, certain she would hit on something rare and valuable there. After she had met James, she had stopped going, because he didn’t like them.
His gut clenched. Opening up in a relationship was risky. Was he really ready to do it?
The woman smiled at Cleo and seemed to make a gesture Mark couldn’t quite place. It almost seemed like go for it or something.
But he had to be mistaken.
Cleo came back to him. “All set to go.” She sounded slightly nervous. Mark helped her into her coat, grabbed his own, and they left. Outside in the quiet street, doubts assailed him. By leaving together, ahead of the others, he might have started tongues wagging. Why on earth did he follow such an impulsive idea? No good could come of that.
Cleo walked close by his side. “It’s not that cold,” she said. As if to deny her words, her breath formed fog on the air.
He glanced at her then reached out and put his arm around her. “Better l
ike this?”
“Much better.”
…
Cleo’s heart beat fast as she felt his hand on her side, almost gingerly touching her. As if he was worried she’d break away from him and smack his face. But she was far too breathless for that. The whole night there had been something simmering between them, and now it crackled in the frosty air around them. It wafted toward them on the evening breeze. Walking her home…it was something couples did in old movies. Something nostalgic and utterly romantic. Maybe they had more in common than their literary likes? Maybe their ideas about relationships could also be a…perfect match?
Nonsense, he’s just being a gentleman. Mark is like that. Don’t read too much into it.
“Not cold anymore?” His voice was close to her ear.
She didn’t dare look at him. “No, this is fine.” Let’s walk on forever.
“Good.” He didn’t say anymore, as if his head was as empty as hers and there were no convenient casual subjects for conversation at hand. They turned from one silent street into another, no sounds around them but their own footfalls softly on the sidewalk. Once a car passed them, its headlights casting them in bright light, outlining their merged shadows on the ground in front of them. Not two figures anymore, but one. “Being together” had never attracted her. She didn’t see why she would want to give up control of her rare free time to someone else. She liked running alone, going to the cinema alone, or having a drink on a terrace while listening to an audio book or browsing a catalog. She had never needed what others seemed to enjoy so much. Until now. Walking with Mark was something she wanted to do more often. Something fun and different and…important. Something she needed in her life.
Mark pulled her a fraction closer. She didn’t resist. She didn’t want to. She wanted him to stop walking and pull her full into his embrace. Hold her, her head lying on his shoulder, his arms tightly around her waist. Standing in the darkness, holding on to each other, knowing you belonged together. Don’t let this walk end, ever.
But Heart Street lay around the corner. Maybe a hundred more steps? Ninety-nine, ninety-eight.
No, don’t go, don’t let go. Stay with me. Be mine.
They turned the corner. Their paces were in perfect unison, their united shadow creeping along the shop fronts each time they passed a streetlight. She slowed her step to stretch the moment, and without speaking, he slowed with her, until they were barely moving forward anymore. It was like each new step took more energy, more willpower, because she didn’t want to reach their destination and face their goodbye.
Bookshop. House door. No.
They stopped and stood, like they were undecided. He released his breath slowly before pulling his arm away. Cleo wanted to say, No, don’t do it, but her tongue was stuck to her palate. She glanced at him. He looked at her. She had never seen that look in his eyes. As if she was the only thing in the world, in his world, anyway, and he didn’t see anything else.
He smiled and reached out, running his fingers from her temple to her jaw. She turned her face ever so slightly, and her cheek fit into the hollow of his hand. He placed his other hand against her other cheek. She held her breath, not sure this was actually happening. Was it some dream? A fantasy?
He waited, staring down on her as if he wanted to give her time to pull away. But she didn’t. Not when he lowered his head. Not when his lips brushed hers very lightly, as if asking her permission.
She angled her head up to his slightly, so her lips pressed to his. His one hand slipped to her neck, sending a shock of warmth through her body. She widened her eyes and pulled back, gasping for breath.
…
Mark stared at her, having trouble focusing. Why did she pull away? She’d been kissing him back. The sense of excitement that she felt the same way rushed through his veins and made his hands tremble.
Cleo whispered, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Why not?”
“You’re going to be my boss. The shop will belong to your chain, and…I would feel bad about it, like…”
“This has nothing to do with the shop or the chain. Don’t you see?” He wanted to explain to her that their attraction had begun when he had seen her pink sneakers stick out of her book castle, but she didn’t give him a chance.
“It’s not a good idea. I’m sorry.” She backed away from him, to her door, dug through her pockets in a rush. The cold evening air breathed around him as if he was suddenly standing on a mountaintop, alone.
“Cleo, please.”
She pulled out her key. She unlocked the door and stepped in, looking back at him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice brittle, as if she was on the verge of tears. Then she banged the door shut.
He stepped forward and placed his hand against the wood. He could still feel the softness of her skin under his touch, the warmth of her cheek snuggled in the hollow of his palm. But he wasn’t touching her cheek anymore. This was cold solid wood, locking him out. One moment she’d been kissing him like her life depended on it, the next she’d slammed the door in his face.
Literally. He formed his hand into a fist to pound on that door, demand entry and a discussion of what had happened, and foremost why, but then he changed his mind. He didn’t want to argue with her, act like she owed him an explanation. She didn’t owe him anything. Not to turn over her shop to the Stephens chain, and certainly not to…
Love me?
He let out a short, mirthless little laugh. Of course she didn’t love him. What had he been expecting? That a mutual attraction and a few interests shared could suddenly build a bond between people, grow into something bigger than they had imagined possible, so soon?
He put both hands against his face and rubbed it as if to bring common sense back to his foggy brain. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. He didn’t even want a relationship!
But he couldn’t banish the memories of how they had walked together and how she had responded to his kiss. There was something inside of her that believed in them. Just like there was something inside of him that believed in them, against all odds. A little voice he couldn’t shut up, not with all his rationality or practicality.
And he didn’t even want to. This was special, precious. Something he wanted to protect and keep. Explore over more ice cream and chocolate, and walking hand-in-hand, not through dark streets but through a museum full of art from when Marco Polo had visited China. The literary likes could guide them.
Yes, that’s it. An idea unfolded in his brain, how the things they had in common could show her they were meant to be together.
He smiled to himself. This has to work. He was good at planning. And this might be the best plan he ever had. A surprise to show her how he really felt about her.
Chapter Eleven
“I’ve scouted this area.” Mark stood in his father’s office in front of the white wall onto which his presentation was being projected. His father sat behind his desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, with that slightly skeptical expression Mark knew so well. That he was his son didn’t mean better treatment than any other employee. To him, his father was just as critical. Maybe even more so. He didn’t want anyone to think he was cutting his son any slack. If Mark said something that wasn’t accurate or suggested a rosy scenario that was unlikely to realize itself, Dad would immediately pounce on it. Mark might be the expert about the regional situation, but his father had a lifetime of experience. And he can smell a rat from a mile away.
But he had come prepared. Not only with facts and figures. But with the plan he had made with Graham. Before he had come here. He’d needed an ally to make this work.
His head felt light, and his lips tingled whenever he thought of Cleo. The office space became sort of fuzzy and he could only remember how good it had been to hold her, like it was something he had waited for all his life, although he had never known that he was.
“There are several shops that would fit well into the chain.” Mark pointed at spots on the projected map. Including Wood Creek. Adrenaline pounded through his system as he gestured at the speck on the map where the woman lived who consumed his every waking moment. He had a feeling his father would zoom in on his special interest in that little place and grow immediately suspicious, but there was no sign of it in his father’s expression. So far, so good.
“However, while I was out there, I realized something that we’ve discussed before. I mean, the particular point forced itself upon me with new urgency.” Mark began to pace the room. “Small town shops need a different approach. They cater to a different audience than the Stephens chain does in the city. There, we use the opportunity method. Offer people an opportunity to buy, quickly, efficiently, on their way to work or the airport. We want to get their attention, even if they have no intention of buying a book, and show them that a book is exactly what they need at that moment. But in the small towns, we have a different situation. People go to the shops on purpose. They support local shopkeepers. They trust their expert judgment.”
He stopped and looked at his father. “They want a personal approach. Not an efficient employee in an impersonal, chain-dictated business suit, but someone they can relate to and talk with.”
“You know that talking with customers is not the same as selling to them,” his father said.
It was the same refrain he had repeated to Cleo when they had first met, so he knew how ingrained this was in his father’s way of thinking. But he hoped that he could convince him to see things his way. “See it as an investment. Building personal relations you can fall back on. Once there is town loyalty to a shop, it stays strong. I talked to Graham about this, and he agrees. He would be willing to become our small town strategist. I can supply him with ideas I find when assessing, and he can turn it all into a program that is workable and yet tailor-made so individual shopkeepers can put their own spin on it.”