Twenty-Five

Dahlia

 

Books.

There were books everywhere. Books on the chairs, books on the tables, books on the bar.

I delayed opening. I didn’t want anyone to come in here while books took over almost the entire bar. That was asking for careless little bastards to spill stuff on them, and they were too precious for that.

They were my mom’s, and they’d been on those shelves for too long.

I’d updated them occasionally. Of course, I had. I didn’t have a choice. Books were timeless, but patience wasn’t.

The books were a symbol of my mom, of the legacy she’d left behind. I’d never wanted to remove them, but it was time. Time to replace the battered corners and folded pages with sharp, crisp edges. Time to replace the cracked and wrinkled spines with flat, shiny ones.

They were all special. Every last book. Beloved tales from fictional lands that told of mystical creatures, past decades, and everlasting loves. But still, it was about time it changed.

These books belonged on my shelves at home where I could see them every day. My mom would still live on in this bar because at its core, it was hers. Built for her love of books and literature and love itself.

Taking the books she reread more times than I could ever count wouldn’t hurt it.

The bonus? I got to go shopping for more.

I wasn’t going to lie to myself and say that idea was terrible. There was no place like a bookstore. Multiple bookstores were even better. Kind of like orgasms.

Happiness was where the books—and orgasms—were, after all.

I stroked the spine of Little Women before I tucked it into the box next to an old book of classic poetry. I folded the corners of the box flaps until they were steady, taped the top, and then shoved it over to the side of the thankfully empty table.

Then, I reached for another box. More books. More packing. More tape. More boxes. More books. More packing. More tape.

It was oddly therapeutic. As if I were packing a piece of the past away, but not in a bad way. As if I was making the bar mine in the simplest way possible.

Knocks at the door broke through my rhythmic movements.

“Sorry, we’re closed until later!” My voice echoed through the empty bar.

“It’s me,” Damien’s gruff reply came.

I held the old copy of Outlander to my chest and walked to the door. I unlocked it with a click and opened it.

He stood there wearing dark jeans, a white shirt, and a light blue jacket. One of these days I’d figure out how he constantly coped wearing those damn jackets, but today was not that day.

I dragged my gaze up over his body to where the tiniest amount of short hair peeked out through the open collar. “Yes?” I said, finally meeting his dark gaze.

His lips twitched up. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

“Good afternoon?”

Damien held out his hand, pulling his sleeve up, and showed me his watch.

Afternoon it was.

“Then, good afternoon,” I said with a smile. “Can I help you?”

His eyes twinkled. “In more ways than one. Are you busy?”

“Er…” Looking over my shoulder at the mess of the bar, I sighed. “You could say that.”

He leaned to the side and looked past me. “What the—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“A re-do?” was my lame answer.

“A re-do,” he said flatly.

“A re-do.”

“You’ve got to explain better than that.”

I sighed and dragged him inside. “You’re letting all the cold air out. Plus, I feel hot just looking at you.”

“If you want me, all you have to do is ask.”

“Not right now. Just wear some climate-appropriate clothes, you lunatic. This isn’t Canada, it’s Vegas.” I put the book I was holding into a box while he laughed. “And I’m replacing the books.”

His laughter cut short. “You’re replacing the books? Why?”

I shrugged a shoulder and picked up a few more. “I feel like it’s time. These books have been collected over the years. They’re all my mom’s favorite books or authors. It’s time to replace them with mine.”

“You’re not keeping any of them?” His eyebrows shot up and he picked up a Jackie Collins book. “You’re starting completely fresh?”

“Yep.” Slowly, I nodded. “This was her bar until my dad died. Now it’s mine. Everything they created won’t change. Just the books. And the lights in the ladies’ bathroom.”

Damien put down the book he was holding. His fingertips trailed over the covers of the books on top of each stack. Every few steps he paused to read the titles, moving the odd ones out the way so he could see what was underneath.

“I didn’t realize there were so many books here.” He swept a finger over the cover of A Game of Thrones. “Your mom read this?”

“Dad. He loved the whole series. I think he might have trolled the author on Facebook once for taking so long to write the next book.”

“Did you watch the TV show?”

“We tried. It got banned a couple seasons in. Something about too many changes.” I shrugged, finishing packing up another box. “He snuck a few in that he liked.”

“Why don’t you keep some? Buy the books again, just newer. There are so many…” He trailed off, picking up book after book. “You know I always hated reading?”

“I think you mentioned a hatred of books once before. Right along with Jennifer Aniston.”

He pointed a book at me. “An episode of Friends came on. They were on a break, and I still can’t stand her.”

“I’m not getting into that, and you’re an idiot.”

He laughed. “Still—my mom used to make us read every night. It was the worst thing ever. Perrie would read out loud, and Penelope would scream and laugh at the dumbest things, even when she stopped reading picture books. She once re-read the same page over and over just because she thought it was funny. That thirty minutes each night before bedtime was the noisiest part of my day and I hated it.”

Oh my God. He’s talking about his family.

“Perrie and Penelope are your sisters, right?”

He nodded.

“I used to do that, too. I stopped reading out loud once Mom died. There was nobody left who had the time to listen to it.” I sighed and smiled sadly. “Until you started reading my book out loud, of course.”

“Are any of these filled with pulsating cocks and quivering vaginas?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read them all. There are a few suspicious looking ones on the far table. I’m not even sure I can bring myself to donate them. I think they might be dino-porn crept onto the shelves by idiot students.”

“Dino-porn?” Disbelief flashed across his face, but so did curiosity, so I wasn’t surprised when he walked over and picked one up. “Taken by the T-Rex. So, that’s a thing.”

The laughter crept out of me. “That’s a thing.”

He dropped the book with a shudder. “Are you taking all of these home? To the library?”

“Yep. That’s where they belong. Then, I’m going shopping.”

“Today? You’re running out of time.”

“Today, tomorrow…Whatever.” I shrugged and packed another box. “There’s no rush.”

Damien shrugged off his jacket and unbuttoned a sleeve. “Got more boxes?”

“What are you—you don’t have to help me.” I blinked at him, holding the edge of the box. “It’s just me being crazy. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have serious bookworm regret right now.”

He finished folding his sleeves up and walked around the edge of the table to me. His hands framed my face, their warmth skittering across my skin as he looked right into my eyes. “The crazy makes sense. If you want help, I’ll give it.”

He was so earnest, so open, so…so dangerous. This was the side of him that, if I had any sense left, I’d avoid.

But I didn’t have sense left.

“That would be great. Thank you.” I gave him a tiny smile, one that he gently kissed before he released me.

“I’ll pack the human-porn books, but I’m not touching the dino-porn.”

I rolled my eyes. Human-porn my ass.

 

***

 

“Grab a cart!”

“A cart? They have shopping carts at the bookstore?” His eyes bugged as I skipped toward the front of the store. “Why the hell would you need a cart at a bookstore?”

I stopped on the sidewalk and turned. Blinking innocently, I replied, “Why the hell wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not going to go there.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth and did as I’d asked by grabbing a cart. “There’s no way anyone can fill this with books.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” I grinned, setting my purse in the child seat. “Watch and learn, Mr. Fox.”

“This was a horrible idea. Why did I offer to help again?”

I glanced over my shoulder and shrugged. “You probably want in my pants again.”

“Sweetheart, as a rule, I always want in your pants.” He stepped into the vast store with me and paused. “Does following you around make it more likely?”

Hmm. That was a loaded question. At this point, he could take his shirt off and I’d probably let him do whatever he wanted to me.

“That depends on your behavior while we shop.”

“What am I, five? And what do you mean, we?”

I beelined straight for the romance aisle, hooking my fingers through the spaces at the end of the cart so Damien had to follow me. “We. Just that. You’re helping me shop for books for the bar.”

“I don’t read.” He said it slowly, enunciating all three syllables as though he were speaking to a complete idiot.

“You don’t have to read them.” I rolled my eyes, turning left into the romance aisle. “You just have to pretend like you want to.”

He stopped the cart—and me, in the process—and faced a shelf. I spun around in just enough time to see him reaching for a bodice-ripping, historical novel. He gave the cover the most pathetic excuse for a cursory glance before he dropped the book into the cart.

“There.” He moved his gaze from the book to me. “Did that help?”

“Oh, yeah. What did you just buy?”

He leaned over to see the title. “The Countess’ Lover.”

“Is it good?”

Retrieving it from the cart, he showed me the front and pointed to the bottom. “The cover is a little kinky. Did you see all that ankle on show?”

Damn it. I was not going to laugh.

I was going to laugh.

My flat expression broke in less than ten seconds, and as I replaced the book back on the shelf, I giggled. “Ankle was a taboo thing back then. It wasn’t ladylike.”

“How big of a heart attack would these people have if they came to Las Vegas?” He picked up a book through his musing. “It would be quite fun to take one of these stuffy men to a strip club.”

I swiped the new book from him and replaced it on the shelf. “They weren’t stuffy. They were…proper. There were rules for dating. Well, it was courting then, but still.” I ran my fingertip along the shelf. I hadn’t read many historicals in my life, but I knew a few names, thanks to the Internet. “It was all very prim and proper and, most of the time, the women were virgins.”

“They were virgins?”

I nodded, pulling a few books off the shelf and depositing them into the cart. “No sex until after marriage.”

“Imagine being a man with a three-inch cock and knowing your future wife was going to hate you after your wedding.”

“That’s pretty shallow.”

“I’m only thinking about how gutted I’d be if I were six inches smaller.”

“Is it the bookstore, or do you default to a teenage mentality when thinking about your cock?”

His lips pulled into a dirty smirk. “No teenage mentality could come up with the things I want to do to you, Dahlia.”

I rolled my eyes. Again. I was getting a headache. It was throbbing right behind my eyes, and each throb said the same thing: self-inflicted.

I knew better than to bring a man—any man at all—into a bookstore.

“Can you attempt to take this seriously? Believe it or not, this is actually work.” I trailed my finger across the spines until I reached the end of the historical section. I went back to add a few more books to the cart, but really, I needed Abby for that.

Ancient love was her jam, not mine.

“I fail to see how buying books is working.”

Pursing my lips, I plucked a four-book, romantic suspense series off the shelf. “I need to replace the books in the bar. Therefore, it’s working.” I gave him a pointed look.

He stared at me flatly, his dark eyes just as plain as his expression. Except boredom. There was a hell of a lot of boredom there. “I don’t think you want to revamp. I think it’s just an excuse to buy books.”

“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind.” I crouched down to avoid meeting his eyes.

What? I loved books—any excuse to buy books was valid in my eyes.

New baby? Here, have a soft book.

Toddler’s birthday? This cardboard book has fuzzy bits.

Reading age? Here’s a picture or chapter book.

Birthday? Anniversary? Graduation? Wedding? Here, have a fucking book.

Books were always a good idea.

“If you didn’t own The Scarlet Letter,” Damien started, scooting down the aisle after me, “What would you be?”

“Professional reader,” I answered automatically.

“No such thing.”

“Fine, I’d be a librarian or an editor if you want to be specific, but they both get paid to read.” I poked my tongue out at him. “What would you do if you didn’t own your business?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.” He rested his forearms on the handlebar of the cart. “I guess I’ve always taken it as fact that I’d own the business one day, so thinking of something I wanted to do was never an option for me.”

“Why not? Couldn’t one of your sisters do what you do? Or is it because you’re the oldest?”

“Partly because I’m the oldest, partly because I’m male.”

“Oh dear.” I paused, a thick book in hand. “This sounds like we’re throwing back to the chauvinistic conversation we had once before.”

“You mean the comment you took and ran with.”

“Semantics.” I waved the book before putting it back on the shelf. “What does your possession of a penis have to do with your ability to run a business?”

His grabbing of a book with a shirtless man on the cover was about as subtle as a hungry newborn.

I’d also never seen a man so engrossed in another shirtless man. At least, not a straight man.

“Damien.” I whipped the book from his hands and dropped it in the cart.

So, it was an impulse based on the abs. Shoot me.

He sighed, rubbing his hand down his face before he met my eyes. “My dad is pretty…traditional.”

“Traditional.” My voice was flat. I didn’t need to continue this conversation to know where it was going.

“He’s all for strong women, as long as they’re lifting a laundry basket.”

I snorted. “So, he’s a sexist pig.”

He didn’t say anything. “He doesn’t think women have places running businesses, from what I can gather.”

“So, it doesn’t matter if your sisters are more capable of running the business than you. He’d rather die than let them take it over.” I tried for another snort, but it came out a tired scoff.

It all made sense now, didn’t it? The borderline harassment that happened before and after my return from California. The insistence that he would get what he wanted.

But who was the driving force?

Damien or his father?

I walked away from him a few feet down the aisle to where some of my favorite books were. In silence, I picked up one after another of the engrossing romances, holding them in a tall stack in my arm until I couldn’t fit another one there.

Two strong hands took several of the books off the top and carefully deposited them into the cart. Damien took the rest, stacking them gingerly beside and on top of one another.

Before he could return to me, I shuffled down a few steps and stared at the books in front of me.

There was a thickness in my throat—one that was linked up with the tightness in my chest. All the doubts from before came flooding back, slamming into me with such severity that I had to lock my knees to stay standing.

Everything I’d ever thought about him, every question I’d ever asked, every doubt I’d ever entertained, they consumed me. One after another, like waves crawling up a beach.

Slowly.

Ferociously.

Repeatedly.

“Is that why?” I asked softly.

“Is what why?” Damien stood next to me, staring at the side of my head.

“Why you tried to buy Scarlet. Why you wouldn’t let up. Why you kept going on and on about it.”

“Dahlia—”

“Is it why you’re standing with me in the middle of a fucking bookstore like you give a shit?” I snapped my head around to look at him. My eyes burned, the stinging threat of tears just seconds behind my hard glare.

I couldn’t even pass it off as anger. The fact that someone who acted like they cared about me was sounding like they didn’t believe I could do what I do as successfully as him.

“You wanted to buy my business because I’m a woman.”

“Stop.” He took my hand and yanked it down, twisting me until I was looking at him.

A woman walked down the aisle, ignoring us completely.

“Dahlia.” His voice was softer and gentler than I’d ever heard it, and his eyes—oh God, his eyes. They were raw and unguarded, full of feelings you couldn’t fake. “Stop, all right? Stop and listen to me.”

I blinked to fight back the tears. Why did I have to be a crier?

“My father wanted to buy your business for that reason. And yes—I kept going on about it because he did. I thought you’d be easy to break down. But what you don’t know is that it’s over. It’s done.”

“What?” I whispered.

“There will be no more attempts to buy The Scarlet Letter. You aren’t going to sell, and I’ve told him as much. I gave up trying several days ago, so whatever you think, is wrong.”

I swallowed.

“I won’t lie and say that my attempts at spending time with you weren’t because I wanted the bar. They were. One hundred percent. But now…” He ran his hand through his hair, still keeping his eyes locked onto mine. “Now, I’m here because I want to be. Look at me, Dahlia. Do I look like the kind of guy who browses the fucking romance aisle in a bookstore for fun?”

I traced my gaze up and down his body, shaking my head, hiding my tiny smile.

“I’m here because I’m not acting like I give a shit.” His fingertips were soft against my skin as he crept his hands up to cup my face. “I do give a shit. I do care. About you.”

I covered one of his hands with my own, my chest tight. “You don’t agree with him? You think I can run the business?”

“Sweetheart.” With our breath mingling and our lips a heartbeat apart, he said, “I think you could run the world if you put your mind to it.”