I look at Duncan knowingly. “What I mean is that you’re funny in the way that I can see through you.”
“You can see through me?” He rolls his eyes. “Lady, I’m not a ghost.”
I purse my lips and give him a librarian-liketsk. “Lady?”
“Sorry,” he says automatically. “Ma’am?”
I stifle the laughter bubbling inside. He’s witty, but I’m not going to let him know that either. As a former defensive child myself, of course I get him. But I know I need to also play this slowly so I don’t scare him off. I know from all of my late-night talks with Levi that Duncan’s had a rough time mourning the loss of his parents, and I cannot even begin to imagine where his head is, even with my empath skills.
I tap on the counter, keeping my gaze level with his, before deciding to move on. I don’t want him to know I’ve got his number. Yet.
“You’re right. You’re not a ghost, something you proved to us last night when you tried to steal that book.” I hop off the stool, kicking it behind me as I point down anaisle, toward the back of the store. “All of these books here are on special so they need to be priced using my sales sheet. What doesn’t go on the table will then be stacked in the spot on the shelves that’s been cleared.” I thrust a piece of paper, the aforementioned sales sheet, his way. “Go by this sheet, then go stack, then let me know it’s done and I’ll double-check your work.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just huffs. It’s a weighted huff, filled with a few unsaid expletives, but I refuse to be moved by his attitude. He won’t break me. I watch as he snatches up the sales sheet and studies it, my phone going off in my bag beside me.
Figuring it’s probably Levi, I don’t even look at the screen to check. I press the phone to my ear. “¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?”
There’s silence on the other end. After a few seconds, someone clears their throat. “Is this Georgina Simpson? From Apartment 2 at 313 West Third Street?”
My full name being used is always a cause for concern. “Yeeeessss,” I answer, slowly dragging that word out as long as I can. My confidence has just gone south. “Can I help you?”
“This is Loretta Steele. I work for the rental company that handles your building. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we were there earlier this week doing a yearly inspection.”
I vaguely remember seeing a note in my mailbox about this, but since I’m usually at the bookshop all day long, I didn’t pay any attention.
“Sure. Is there something wrong with my apartment?”
“Not necessarily your apartment. It’s more like the whole building. We’d had a report from one of your neighbors about termites.”
Ew. Just the thought makes me shudder. Bugs of any kind, really. Don’t even get me started on cockroaches.
“Okay,” I say, making my way around the counter and meandering to the front of the shop, where the window overlooks the street. “Were there issues?”
Loretta sighs. “Yes, unfortunately, there’s structural damage that we need to address as soon as we can.”
“Structural damage?” That sounds ominous. My mind goes to an image of my giant Rottweiler sitting in my living room with the floor giving out, and suddenly, like a cartoon, the floor gives way and he’s sitting in the middle of the giant basement that’s below us. “How bad is it?”
“It’s…not good. Look, we’re required to give everyone seven days’ notice to evacuate. We need to fumigate, then look at the damage that’s been done and see if we are going to be able to fix it.”
“So we need to leave temporarily?” Fingers crossed.
“Weeelll,” she says, a little too high-pitched for my taste. “That’s the thing. We don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. It’ll be like peeling an onion. We need to check out the layers.”
A sick feeling hits my stomach. “Do I need to pack my things and box them up, as if I’m moving out?”
“It’s advisable.”
This woman is going to make me scream. “Loretta, I need you to understand I’m a single woman who owns her own business. I have a dog, and that’s it. It’s just us. But I need to know what kind of long-term plan I may need to consider.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a possibility you could be out of your apartment for up to three months or more.”
“So I need to move?” Now my voice is taking on a high-pitched tone that makes me cringe. I’ve seriously hit an octave that could rival an opera singer.
“I’m not going to say that, but I will say you should think about other options,” she whispers. “From one single woman to another, you gotta take care of you.”
