Page 8 of Claimed By the Bookstore Alpha
"You know.” I was struck by an idea, "I helped my friend Saul reorganize his inventory system last year. If you want a second pair of eyes on any of this, I'm pretty good with spreadsheets."
His hands stilled on the papers. "You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to. I want to." I kept my voice light, hoping he wouldn't read too much into the offer. "Besides, I'm curious about how independent bookstores work. Research for my next project."
That wasn't entirely true. My next book was about a lonely lighthouse keeper, not a bookstore owner but Flynn didn't need to know that.
"Your next project?"
"I'm thinking about writing something for older kids. Middle grade, maybe. A story about someone who finds community in unexpected places."
Flynn's eyes met mine briefly before he looked away. "That sounds... nice."
"So, can I help? I promise I won't reorganize anything without permission."
He hesitated, and I could hear his mind churning as he weighed the benefits of assistance against the risk of letting someone into his space.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have someone double-check my math,” he said. "But I'm warning you, it's incredibly boring."
"Flynn.” I settled onto the stool he'd pulled out from behind the counter, "I write children's books for a living. I once spent three hours researching the migration patterns of butterflies for a single sentence. Boring doesn't scare me."
That earned me another almost-smile.
Wow! We were going to be working together for a while, side by side. Yippee!
For the next two hours, we went through the inventory sheets. He was methodical and precise, catching errors I would have missed and explaining his categorization system with the kind of detail that suggested he'd been doing it for years. I was better at spotting patterns in the data, pointing out seasonal trends and suggesting which sections might benefit from expansion.
"Look at this.” I highlighted a section of the spreadsheet. "Your science fiction sales spike every few months, but alwaysaround the same dates. What happens in March, July, and October?"
Flynn leaned over to look at the screen, close enough that I could smell his soap. Not cologne because that was too in your face and he was the opposite. Definitely soap and it was clean and understated just like him.
"Comic conventions.” He rubbed his jaw. "There's one in the city every few months. I never made the connection."
"You could probably increase those sales if you timed your science fiction orders better. You could reach out to some of the convention organizers about cross-promotion."
Flynn made a note on his pad, his handwriting as neat and precise as everything else about him. "That's... a good idea."
Gold star for me. “I have my moments.” I was pleased by the genuine surprise in his voice.
We fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, him explaining the intricacies of book ordering and distribution while I offered suggestions from my author perspective. He had strong opinions about which publishers and distributors were reliable. And he understood which books were worth the shelf space they occupied.
“You love your work.”
“I do but it’s the whole process and not just the books themselves, but the business of connecting books with readers." He launched into a detailed explanation of why he refused to carry a particular bestselling series.
He paused mid-sentence, looking almost surprised by his own enthusiasm. "I suppose I do love it. It's a puzzle. Figuring out what people want to read, sometimes before they know it themselves."
"That's exactly what good booksellers do," I told him. "You're not just selling books, you're curating experiences. Creating connections between stories and the people who need them."
He studied me as if he was seeing me, not the author and not the person who’d been helping him out. "Is that what you think I do?"
"I know that's what you do. I saw it when I did my reading and it shows how you've organized this place." I pointed around the store. "Every section tells a story about the kind of reader who might find something they love here."
He was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands. When he looked up, there was a vulnerability in his eyes. He needed a hug.
"Most people think I'm just antisocial. That I don't like customers."
I flapped my hand in the air, dismissing what he’d said. “Most people don't pay attention. But you're not antisocial, Flynn. You're selective. There's a difference."
