Page 16 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Chapter Four
Emerson
It’s Memorial Day Weekend, the official kickoff to summer. It will be crazy busy around here and it won’t stop until Labor Day.
Friday morning, I arrive at the bookstore just before nine. I’ll change the hours so we open at ten after the holiday weekend because people tend to come in later during the summer season. Vacationers sleep in and usually aren’t in a hurry when they are at the beach.
When Grandpop passed away my senior year of college, it was assumed I would sell the bookstore he left me. I never considered that. Never. And although my literary arts degree hardly prepared me for owning and running a business, I’ve managed very well. I’m not rich, but I’m far from destitute. Sea Tales is only one of two bookstores in Sea Cove, its popularity unquestioned. A steady stream of customers, both locals and tourists, keep the doors open, and I’ll always be grateful Grandpop decided I was worthy enough to have it.
Thinking of him puts a lump in my throat. He practically raised me. I spent more time at his little beach cottage and bookstore than I did at my own house. Mom worked long hours in Pier City as a legal secretary so having childcare so readily available was a godsend for her.
Although she’s never said so in as many words, I always thought she considered my choice of degree a bit of a disappointment. She’d hoped I’d become a lawyer or something. As for my dad, well, his opinion never mattered. My parents split up when I was four, and he moved to Colorado with a new wife and started a new family. He’s never been interested in a relationship with me, and over the years, I grew accustomed to that fact.
Mom lives in Atlanta now with her second husband, Ben Carrington. He’s a state prosecutor and was her boss when I was growing up. I actually like him very much. Ben’s a good man, and good to my mom. They married five years ago, right before I entered my freshman year of college.
I’ve just begun unboxing some books by a local author when the bell above the door tinkles merrily, signaling Lacey’s arrival.
“Hey, want a frozen latte? Or an iced coffee?” she asks, digging her wallet out of her purse. “My treat.”
“Sure. But you shouldn’t pay for mine… I’ll get it.”
Waving a hand at me, she darts back toward the door, glossy brown hair swinging around her shoulders. “No worries! You want the usual? Vanilla macaroon?
“Yeah. Thanks.” I watch as she disappears from view of the front windows, headed toward the Drip Drop Coffee Pot, Sea Cove’s coffee bar and breakfast spot. My attention returns to the boxes in the middle of the floor. Space in the bookstore is premium; what doesn’t fit on the shelves or in the big front windows must go up high. This new book, a murder mystery, is great beach reading material. It will sell fast, especially with the author being local. I remind myself we need to schedule a book signing within the next couple of weeks.
I pull the ladder out of the small back stockroom and place one box on the paint can ledge. Once I’m up on the fifth rung, my intent is to slide this box into an open space along the very top of the built-in bookcases. It will be easily accessible as the supply on the shelves dwindles.
The tinkle of doorbell startles me. Lacey couldn’t have forgotten anything. She has her wallet. And it’s probably not a customer, being that it’s so early.
Balancing the box on the ladder shelf, my attention remains focused on making it fit into the small space in front of me.
“Be right with you,” I call out cheerfully.
There’s a charged moment of silence, a quick intake of breath, then a husky male voice responds, “Don’t rush things just for me. The view is pretty spectacular.”
I freeze, my heart in my throat, pulse pounding. Sweat immediately pops out on my upper lip. I lick it away without even thinking.No, no, no. This can’t be happening. It isn’t possible…
I’ve dreamed of that voice. God, the nightmares I’ve had. The fantasies. I’ve cursed that voice, wishing I’d never met its owner. Cried because of it more times than I could count. Wished I could go back and erase that night. Wished I could relive it again and again.
Greyson Finch is standing in my bookstore.
Greyson Finch is here. Right. Here.
“I might point out you shouldn’t be up that high without a safety net,” he says amicably.
He sounds so close.
Heisclose. Jesus, he’s holding the legs of the ladder, his hands just inches away frommybare legs. When I look down, intense hazel eyes stare up at me. His dark hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, spikey but softly tousled. Like some girl recently had her fingers tangled in it while he fucked her stupid. Just like he fucked me once.
Waves of dizzying hate and yes, lust, overtake me. But, when I lose my balance, it’s easier to blame it on shock. Whatever. I slide off that ladder like my bones dissolved into jelly.
I hit a few rungs on my way down so it’s a miracle when I land on my feet. Well, mostly, I land in his arms and against his chest. A chest that’s warm and wide beneath a faded black t-shirt scented of soap, bayberry, and the sea. God.Oh, God. It should be illegal for a man to smell so damn delicious.
Books clatter to the floor in an upside-down jumble.
“Whoa!” He grips my waist while my arms move from being looped around his neck to hanging rather clumsily off his shoulders. Then I gulp, horrified by a sudden memory. I’m clutching those smooth, muscular shoulders while he murmurs that he wants me to spread my legs wider. My fingernails dig into his flesh while he tastes me, searching out the achy parts until I fling my arms out and grip the duvet on the bed, screaming into it as his mouth drives me over a jagged cliff of need.
I quickly shift until I’m gripping his upper arms instead. A much safer place to grab this man. I mean, it’s just his arms, right?
