The bells chime at the front of the shop, and a familiar, feminine purr of a voice greets Charlie. He responds warmly, and she gives a sexy laugh. I can’t make out every word, but every few sentences are punctuated by that same gravelly sound.
Amaya, I realize, as she’s saying something like, “Are we still on for Friday?”
Charlie says something like, “Still works for me.”
And my brain says something like, DOESN’T WORK FOR ME. NOT AT ALL.
To which the career woman angel on my shoulder replies, Shut up and mind your own business. He’s not supposed to occupy any of your mental real estate anyway.
I put on headphones and blast my cityscape sounds to make myself stop listening in, but not even the dulcet tones of New York City’s finest cabdrivers cussing one another out is enough to soothe me.
Charlie said Amaya wasn’t jilted, which more than likely means she broke up with him. I don’t want to be following this thought out to its logical conclusion, but my brain is a runaway train, smashing through station after station with unrelenting speed.
Charlie didn’t want the relationship to end.
Amaya regrets her decision now.
Things are complicated for Charlie. Whatever’s going on between him and me “can’t be anything.”
Charlie’s keeping the door open to something with his ex.
Amaya just asked him out.
I mean, that’s only one possible through line, but that’s how my brain works: it plots.
This is why crushes are terrible. You go from feeling like life is a flat path one needs only to cruise over to spending every second on an incline, or caught in a weightless, stomach-in-your-throat drop. It’s Mom running out to catch a cab, hair curled and smiling lips painted, only to come home with streaks of mascara down her face. Highs and lows, and nothing in between.
When Libby finally shows up, I’m grateful for the number-twelve-related tasks she assigns me, even if they’re all of the dusting/scrubbing/organizing variety.
Charlie mostly remains tucked in the office, and when he does come out to help customers, I avoid looking at him and somehow still always know right where he is.
After our lunch break, Libby sets out some Book Lovers Recommend cards by the register for customers to fill out, along with a decoupage shoebox drop-box to return the cards to. She hands me three cards “to get them started,” and I wander the shop, searching for inspiration. I see the January Andrews circus book I bought my first weekend here, the one Sally told me Charlie had edited, and prop my card against the bookshelf to scribble a few lines. Next I choose an Alyssa Cole romance Libby loaned me last year, which I made the mistake of opening on my phone and ended up devouring in two and a half hours while standing in front of my fridge.
Next I duck into the children’s book room and straighten to find myself nose to nose with Charlie. Magnets, I think. He catches my elbows, holding me back before we can collide, but you’d still think we were smashed up to each other from mouth to thigh based on the instant crush of heat that wells in me.
“I didn’t know you were in here!” I say in a rush. Huge improvement over LION!
I see the spark in his burnt-sugar eyes the second the perfect response pops into his brain, and I feel the lurching drop of disappointment when he decides to say instead, “Inventory.” He releases me and lifts the clipboard from the shelf. A whopping three point five inches separates us, and an electric charge leaps off him, buzzing through my veins. “I’ll let you get back to . . .”
Still neither of us moves.
“So you and Amaya are hanging out.” I add, almost involuntarily: “I wasn’t eavesdropping—it’s a quiet shop.”
His eyebrow ticks. “ ‘Not eavesdropping,’ ” he teases in a low voice. “ ‘Not stalking.’ I’m sensing a pattern here.”
“Not jealous.” I challenge, stepping closer. “Not adorable.”
His eyes dip to my mouth and slightly dilate before rising. “Nora . . .” he murmurs, a heaviness in his voice, an apology or a half-hearted plea.
My throat squeezes as our stomachs brush, every nerve ending on high alert. “Hm?”
He sets his hands on my shoulders, his touch light and careful. “I need to go,” he says quietly, avoiding my gaze. He sidesteps me and slips from the room.
On Friday another batch of Frigid pages hits our inboxes. I spend the first couple of hours reading and rereading, gathering my thoughts into a document and resisting the urge to live-text Charlie in the other room. Libby’s only around from lunchtime to about three, at which point she leaves with the reminder that she has another surprise for me tonight.
I try to convince myself that’s what her disappearance the other day was about, but I can’t escape the thought that it had something to do with Brendan. I’ve suggested we video call him a few times, but she always has an excuse.
At five, I pack up and leave to meet her. Once again, Charlie’s not at the register, and now I’m not only annoyed and frustrated, I’m sad.
I miss him, and I’m tired of us hiding from each other.
Steeling myself, I duck into the office. He looks up, startled, from where he’s leaned against the bulky mahogany desk on the right side of the room, reading. His eyes, his posture, everything reads jungle cat. If by some strange, ancient curse, a jaguar was turned into a man, he would be Charlie Lastra. After a seconds-long staring contest, he remembers himself and says, “Did you need something?”
Last year, I would’ve thought he was being snotty. Now I realize he’s cutting to the chase.
“We should schedule a time to talk through the next hundred pages.”
His eyes bore into me until there’s smoke lifting off my skin. I’m an ant beneath his sunlit magnifying glass. Finally, he looks away. “We can just do it over email. I know Libby’s keeping you running.”
“It needs to be in person.” I can’t take this tension between us anymore. Avoiding him is only making this worse, and I hate feeling like I’m hiding. With Libby, the way to get to the heart of things might be a slow, cautious obstacle course, but this is Charlie, and Charlie’s like me. We need to bulldoze through the awkwardness. I miss him. His teasing, his challenges, his competitiveness, his care for my overpriced shoes, his smell, and—
Shit, I didn’t expect the list to be so long. I’m in deeper than I realized. “Unless you’re too busy!” I add.
He flashes his first smirk-pout of the week. “What could I possibly be busy with?”
His plans with Amaya surge to the front of my mind. I picture him sweeping her over a puddle to save her shoes, flicking open an umbrella to protect her blown-out hair.
“Maybe that Dunkin’ Donuts grand opening,” I say. “Or the divorce proceedings for that couple who fought at town hall.”
“Oh, they’ll never split up,” he says seriously. “That’s just the Cassidys’ foreplay.”
Foreplay. Not a word I would’ve chosen to introduce to this conversation.
“Does tomorrow work for you?” I ask. “Late morning?”
He studies me. “I’ll reserve us a room.” At my expression, he laughs. “At the library, Stephens. A study room. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Believe me, I think, I’ve tried.
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