Each time we get a shipment in, I feel like a kid with a brand-new toy.
“All right then,” Mr. Roberts says, putting his paperbacks into a canvas bag. “You take care now, dear. Say hello to those cats for me.”
“I will, thank you.” A few months ago, I showed Mr. Roberts my cats’ pictures on the phone, and since then, he’s mentioned them every time he sees me. Come to think of it, he’s not the only one. Most of the regulars at the bookstore know about my fur babies and ask about them often.
Ugh. I am a cat lady.
“Hey, Emma. How’s it going?” Edward Smithson’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see my boss ambling toward me. Walking next to him is a guy I’ve never seen before. Blond, geeky-looking, and a little on the short side, he’s wearing rimless glasses and appears to be about my age.
“I’m good, Mr. Smithson. How about you?” I respond, smiling at my boss. He’s one of the nicest people I know—yet another reason why I haven’t quit this job.
“Oh, you know, still sticking to the diet.” He pats his massive belly, and I suppress a laugh. As far as I can tell, his diet consists of cookies and donuts—eaten when his wife isn’t looking, of course.
Stopping a few feet from me, Mr. Smithson says, “Emma, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Ian.” He turns to the blond guy. “Ian, this is Emma, the girl I was telling you about.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ian,” I say, smiling at the nephew. “What brings you to our bookstore?”
“I just moved to the city,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his neck turns bright red. “I like books, so Uncle Ed wanted to show me his store.”
“Of course.” I give him my warmest smile. I know what it’s like to be socially awkward, so I always try to be kind to shy people. “Would you like me to give you the tour?”
“That would be great,” Mr. Smithson says, sounding far too enthusiastic, and I suddenly realize why Ian is here.
My boss is matchmaking.
Now it’s my turn to blush. To hide the color spreading over my face, I crouch and pretend to tie my sneaker. I don’t know how I feel about this, especially the part where Ian is the boss’s nephew. It could get really awkward if anything goes wrong, and despite the crappy pay, I really like this job.
Oh, well. I’ll have to do my best to be friendly and only friendly.
When I’m sure that I no longer resemble a beet, I rise to my feet and smile at Ian. “Ready for the tour?”
The tour, such as it is, takes less than ten minutes. The bookstore is only a little larger than my studio, with the back area dedicated to a row of armchairs where our patrons like to lounge, and the front populated by shelves stocked with all genres of popular fiction. We’re not big on literary fiction or classics—the boring stuff, as Mr. Smithson calls it—but we have a huge selection of science fiction, fantasy, thrillers, mysteries, and romance novels. It’s our way of making sure our customers aren’t tempted to go online to get the books they actually like to read.
As I show all this to Ian, we make small talk, and I find out that he’s an aspiring urban fantasy author. I discreetly slip in that I do freelance editing, and his eyes light up when I tell him my very reasonable rates.
“Are you going to self-publish or go the traditional route?” I ask as we return to the counter where Mr. Smithson is handling the customers in my stead.
“I’m leaning toward self-publishing,” Ian answers. He seems much less shy now that we’re discussing his passion. “Uncle Ed thinks I should query agents first, but I’m tempted to just put it out there and see how it does.”
“That’s probably smart,” I say, smiling. “But then again, I’m biased. Most of my editing clients these days are independent authors, so I obviously want as many of you around as possible.”
Ian laughs, and Mr. Smithson gives us a pleased smile as he rings up an old woman’s purchase.
Oops. I hope my boss doesn’t think we’re hitting it off in some way other than editor and potential client. Though Ian is the type of guy I normally go for—sweet, nerdy, and a little shy—I’m not the least bit attracted to him. As I wonder why that is, images of icy blue eyes and lean, hard jaw invade my mind, along with graphic details from my dreams last night.
No. No way. I push the images away before my face turns red again. I refuse to believe that my lack of attraction to Ian has anything to do with Marcus. I still don’t know why the hedge fund manager returned my phone in person yesterday, but I’m certain he’s forgotten all about me by now—and I need to forget all about him.