“Just an observation.”
His gaze swept over her. “So what are you going to handle?”
She frowned, not sure how to explain without sounding slightly unhinged. “Something weird just happened.”
“What?”
“I was up in the attic apartment when I heard a loud bang a floor below.” She watched his face, waiting for a change of expression. “When I went down to see what it was, a book was lying in the middle of the second floor, and there’s no way a book that big just fell off the shelf on its own. I’d cleaned the room earlier, too, and there were no books left in precarious positions.”
“You said you were above?”
“Yes, in the apartment one floor up.”
“A heavy vibration might have knocked the book from the shelf.”
She made a face. “I’m not that heavy.”
“I’m not talking about you. It could have been just about anything—a door slamming, or a truck driving by—”
“The books are crammed in next to each other. How would the vibration of a truck make one book wiggle its way out and slam to the ground?”
“What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. But it was unnerving.”
“Do you watch a lot of paranormal shows?”
“No.”
“Do you think your building is haunted?” he asked, a little too cheerfully.
“No.” She was no longer quite so happy to see him. “But I would like an explanation for the book. It was loud when it fell, and a little bit scary. I’m not easily scared.”
“Would you like me to go up and check it out for you?”
Relief swept through her. “Would you?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll stand in the front door, just in case.”
“Just in case the ghost swoops down to steal me?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe in ghosts, and even if ghosts exist, I don’t think they steal people. I’m just staying close in case you need backup.”
“I appreciate that. Lead the way.”
She entered the store, and turned on the lights, skin prickling with awareness as Atticus stood close behind her. She didn’t want to feel this strange tingly sensation when she saw him, and she definitely didn’t want to feel anything tingly when he spoke to her, but she felt tingly now, and she told herself it was relief, because he was helping her out, not because she was ridiculously attracted to him.
They’d taken two steps in when Rachel heard a faint, scrabbling sound above and froze. “There,” she said breathlessly, “did you hear that?”
Atticus stepped around her and entered the store. She watched his face as he listened closely. “I think it’s just a mouse,” he said after a moment. “Which doesn’t surprise me as it’s a one hundred-and-twenty-year-old building with two floors of books.”
Rachel wasn’t reassured. “Can mice knock a big leather-bound book off a shelf?”
“Maybe not a mouse, but a rat could, or a raccoon.” He paused, before shrugging. “Or a possum.”
“A possum?”
“This is Montana.”
“I know it’s Montana,” she retorted, unable to hide her irritation. “You just took me on a scenic drive through Paradise Valley.” She glanced to the wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. “But what if it’s not a mouse, or a raccoon, or a possum? What if someone’s up there? What if someone snuck in when I was working and is hiding upstairs now? Maybe we should call the sheriff.”
“We’re not going to call the sheriff.”
“All right, fine. I’ll call the sheriff.”
“You don’t need the sheriff. That’s embarrassing.”
“Not to me. That’s what law enforcement is for.”
“I will check it out.”
She glanced toward the staircase. “What if there’s someone hiding up there?”
“Then I’ll have to take care of him.”
“What if he has a gun?”
“What if I do?”
She blinked, surprised. “Do you?”
He shrugged. “The point is, I’m not worried.”
“Fine. Be the hero. But if something bad happens to you, I’m calling 911, I’m not coming up.”
“Not even partway up the stairs, just to see how bad it is?”
Her lips twitched. He was so exasperating and yet he made her want to laugh, and no one ever made her laugh. She’d been told over and over that she had no sense of humor, that she wasn’t fun, that she didn’t know how to enjoy anything. “No. You’re on your own.”
“Some backup you are, Rachel Mills.”
*
Atticus wasn’t worried. The scrabbling sound above was definitely a small animal, and there was probably a nest somewhere which needed removing.
“If you need me, yell,” Rachel shouted up at him.
He turned around at the top of the stairs and looked down at her, where she was hovering nervously at the bottom of the stairs, blonde hair piled on top of her head, secured with a yellow pencil, the kind he had used in school. “I appreciate that. But if things turn weird up here, save yourself.”
She giggled as if she found the idea vastly entertaining. “And if things get weirder and you die up there, I’ll rename the store after you.”
“Put that on my headstone. Atticus Bowen didn’t get the restaurant, but he did get a bookstore.”
“Something is better than nothing,” she answered, hands on her hips.
He choked on a muffled laugh and glanced around the second floor, looking for the light switch. He found it on the wall, and switched it on. The overhead chandelier cast sparkles of light on the dark wood floor, while everything smelled of old leather, books, and bright fresh le
mon. It was an old-fashioned scent and he felt a wash of nostalgia. There weren’t many places like Paradise Books left in America. It had once been a much-loved bookstore, but he knew from Troy and Taylor that the bookstore had struggled for the past few years before Lesley had gone to see her sister in Australia.
Atticus had to duck his head as he did a quick but thorough search of the second floor. He found nothing amiss, except for a thick dark green book lying in the middle of the floor. He crossed to pick it up, and turned the hardback with the gilt lettering on the spine, The Works of Charles Dickens: Christmas Stories. It was a big book, a very thick book, and still carrying the anthology, he headed up the stairs to inspect the third floor and was pleasantly surprised by the apartment carved from under the steeply sloped ceiling.
Again he checked all areas, from the small living room with a miniature kitchen, to the closets lining the halls, to the tiny bedroom and bathroom at the opposite end. The walls in the living room and kitchen were exposed red brick, while the brick in the bedroom had been covered with a green and silvery-blue botanical paper. The staircase formed a natural divider between the two spaces and a thick door could be shut at the bottom of the stairs, making the apartment secure.
After a search through the final closet, Atticus was confident there was no one lurking anywhere upstairs, and he headed back down to give Rachel the news that there was nothing for her to be afraid of. “Whatever it was that knocked the book off the shelf is gone, but I did bring the book down. It looks like it wants to be read.” He set the book on the counter and looked at her. “Or maybe bought by someone who loves a good Dickens Christmas story.”
She opened the book and flipped to the copyright date, 1882. The book was square and tight and clean. It was in remarkable shape really. Rachel glanced up at Atticus. “Maybe it wants to be part of my Christmas display.”
Atticus didn’t contradict her, but she sensed from his pursed lips he wanted to. “What?” she said suspiciously.
His broad shoulders lifted and fell. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly. You always have something to say.”