Page 8 of His Juliet

Arturo hadn’t known what social media was when I first started here as an intern. My friends—Breanna, Vivian, Daniela—and I had been part of a program that paid for our associate’s degrees when we aged out of foster care. I’d had no idea what to study, so I’d chosen business like my advisor suggested. The program included an internship, and I’d been assigned to work at the bookstore.

It had changed my life.

Arturo treated me like more than just an employee. He encouraged my ideas for the store, brought me endless tupperware containers of food, and gave me a reason to keep living after everything that happened two years ago.

I missed him now that he was living it up in New Jersey. He deserved an easy retirement after working at the store with his father since he was a kid.

“This cover is super cute,” a college-aged girl said to her friend, picking up a popular book from the romance table.

Her friend gasped. “Oh my god, I read that and it was dirty. You would never know from the cover.”

I grinned as I reorganized some books on the sci-fi shelf. I’d had the same reaction when I’d read it. For the millionth time, I thought about starting a romance book club at the store, and yet again, the idea overwhelmed me with anxiety. The bookstore was my safe place. My anxiety was usually well-controlled here, but the idea of a bunch of people coming for a book club where they’d be staring atme? Expectingmeto make it interesting? I was sure to disappoint them.

I circled back around to the checkout counter, but when there wasn’t anyone waiting, I headed to the tiny employee area to make myself an espresso. Even though Arturo hardly ever came into the store anymore, drip coffee was still firmly banned since no self-respecting Italian would deign to have American drip coffee in their establishment. Fancy espresso was lost on me since I filled my cup mostly with milk and sugar anyway, but I’d adapted to drinking it in the mornings.

The day crawled by. I couldn’t even pass the time with a book because my current read featured a mysterious dark-haired man and I found myself stopping every other page to daydream about the other night.

The way we’d laughed together.

Being held in his strong arms.

Feeling safer than I had in years, even though it didn’t make sense.

“Is this included in the ten percent off sale?” A deep voice startled me from yet another fantasy.

A bald man with a gray beard and a large scar on his cheek stood in front of me, holding a book. His sheer size made me do a double-take. He must have been at least six and a half feet tall and was so broad and muscular his arms stuck out slightly from his thick torso. He held up a book titledThe Tracks That Never Sleep: New York’s Subway Through Time.That must have been one of Arturo’s picks.

“It is,” I said, smiling. “Would you like to get it?”

He nodded and I rang him up.

“This is a nice store. Has it been here long?” he asked.

I tried to place his slight accent. Maybe some sort of Eastern European?

“The store is coming up on its one-hundredth anniversary,” I said.

“Family business?”

“Yes, it is. The owner’s grandpa started it.”

“Not your family?”

I handed him the book and his receipt. “No, I’ve just worked here for a couple of years.”

He raised his chin and headed out of the store, passing our mail carrier on his way out.

“Hey, Susan,” I called out with a wave. “Do you need any help?”

“Nah, girl, I got it. You’ve only got a couple of packages today.” Susan dropped a few padded envelopes and a rubber band-bound stack of letters onto the desk.

“Want an espresso?” I asked.

“You know it.”

I grinned as I made her one and brought it out in a small paper cup. She held it up in a toast and headed back out on her route.

I sifted through the letters. Most of it was junk, but one envelope caught my eye. I bit my lip as I saw the Empire Properties logo on it. I used Arturo’s vintage letter opener, the one that always made me feel like I was in a Jane Austen book, to slice it open.

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