Page 30 of Embers in Autumn
Tuesday arrived dressed like a postcard. The kind of autumn morning that made the sky a polished blue and set the trees on fire without burning a thing. The street outside my window had a soft bustle to it. People moved with jackets undone and faces turned to the sun like sunflowers. It put me in the kind of mood that made tidying feel like a love language. I straightened the display table for the third time and stacked a little pyramid of paperbacks that looked like candy in book form.
The bell chimed and in swept Carol Winthrop-Deveraux-Bennett, scarf tied just so, pearls glowing, perfume faint and expensive.
“There she is,” she sang, tapping the counter with her glove. “My favorite peddler of both virtue and vice.”
“I try to keep the shelves balanced,” I said, lifting the bag I had prepared. “Your train reads. Two small town scandals, one morally gray duke, and the monster romance you requested that I swear I only ordered because you explicitly asked.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Do not be coy. You stocked it because you love me.”
She leaned on the counter and began a rapid-fire debrief of her trip. Her daughter sent her home with too many apples. The neighbor’s dog had eaten a slipper. The hotel’s continental breakfast had offered a croissant so dry it could have doubled as kindling. She delivered it all with the poise of a woman who could charm a room while filing taxes.
By ten thirty the shop had filled into a pleasant hum. Acollege couple drifted through the poetry. A man in a cable knit sweater asked for crime novels, then admitted he only liked the ones set on boats. A teenager bought a workbook, a pack of gel pens, and a vampire paperback that she hid under the workbook as if I could not see it.
Carol lingered near the new releases, head tilted, finger on her chin, reading the backs with a seriousness that would have made a librarian proud. “I may require an extra,” she said without looking up. “Something with vampires this time.”
“I am working on it,” I said, grinning.
The bell chimed again, and the temperature of the room moved up a full degree.
Dean walked in wearing full firefighter uniform. Dark navy. Reflective tape. Heavy boots that thudded like punctuation. The jacket sat on him like it had been cut to his shoulders. He carried a to-go tray, and behind him came a broad, bald man with a smirk and the easy swagger of a person who had never once apologized for being exactly who he was.
My brain short circuited for a second. I had seen Dean in jeans and a T-shirt. I had seen him in my kitchen, hair damp, eyes soft. I had even seen him with a mouth that had made my knees forget their job. I had not seen him like this. The uniform did something to my brain chemistry. The kind of something that made a very inappropriate thought flash through my mind. I would like to be rescued. Preferably now.
“Hi,” he said, and the low warmth in his voice brushed over me like a touch.
“Hi,” I echoed, hoping my face did not betray the fact that I was already mentally fanning myself.
He lifted the tray. “Cinnamon spice latte. With whipped cream.”
I took the cup and tried not to stare at the way the cuff of his jacket caught the light. “You know I keep a coffee pot running allday,” I said, although the whipped cream had already kissed the lid and promised joy.
“I know,” he said, eyes amused. “We had a fire safety presentation at the school down the street. Thought we would drop by.”
The other man set his elbows on the counter and nodded at me. “Mike,” he said. “I am this one’s better looking friend.”
“Lies,” Dean said, deadpan.
I shook Mike’s hand. “Amber. My condolences.”
Mike pointed a thumb toward the door as if the school stood right there. “Half those kids were asleep before we hit the slide about kitchen hazards. The other half wanted to try on the helmet. I should have handed out coffee.”
“Do not give second graders caffeine,” I said. “I beg you.”
Mike’s gaze drifted past me to a stack of sports memoirs on a side display. “Do you have the new striker autobiography? The one with the scandal and that's all everybody talks about on Tik-Tok.”
“Top of the stack,” I said. “Right there.”
He wandered off, already thumbing pages, while my attention snapped right back to Dean. He looked at me like a secret he liked keeping. My chest did a silly little flutter that could not be blamed on sugar.
He nodded to the bag on the counter. “Big order?”
“Carol’s,” I said.
At her name, Carol materialized at my elbow like a conjured duchess. “Present,” she said. “And delighted to meet you properly.”
Dean offered his hand. “Dean Bennett.”
“Carol Winthrop-Deveraux-Bennett,” she returned, shaking it like a queen. “I approve of your manners and your beverage choice.”
