Page 2 of Tempted Away

I’m peering into his eyes, searching for signs that can help me understand feelings that he keeps buried deep down beneath the surface.

“I don’t ever want to feel helpless again.”

His statement is not an answer, but I get what he’s saying. I know that more than anyone. When his dad sold the farm, it broke me having to watch Quinn go through that. I watched him beg his father, tears streaming down his face, completely humiliating himself, not to do it. I watched him marching into the bank, begging them to give a loan to a seventeen-year-old who owned nothing. Who had nothing to his name. I saw him collapse in defeat when the sale went through. I had to watch him mourn his best memories and grapple with the loss of his passion and the future he had dreamt about.

I, more than anyone, understood the helplessness he was feeling. So I understand this drive of his. I’m just scared he will destroy himself in the process.

“You’re not. You’re not that seventeen-year-old boy anymore. Your dad has no more sway in your life.”

His face twists with bitterness, no doubt thinking the same as me. It’s twelve years too late. If his grandpa had only held on, Quinn’s life might have been so different.

I despair that that betrayal is a wound that will never heal. He’ll never admit it, but in some corner of his mind, he blames his grandfather. Not for his death but for not seeing the downward spiral Quinn’s father was on after his wife’s death. But how could he? None of us knew of the gambling debts he accrued on his path to self-destruction.

So, at his death, the farm was bequeathed to Quinn’s dad, with the understanding that it would go to Quinn when he was old enough. Unfortunately, words with no actual proof to back them up do not hold up in a court of law.

A heavy breath moves his shoulders. “I don’t want to think about that right now,” he says, his voice clipped.

He never does, and over the years, I’ve tried to get him to talk about it, but he clams up faster than a rogue toupee caught up in a hurricane. He’s already under so much stress and pressure I do what I always do—say nothing.You can take a horse to the water, but you can’t force him to drink, Grandma’s voice echoes in my head. Grandpa was as stubborn as they came. If he believed the sky was red, you had no hope of convincing him otherwise.

We resume our walk, and I lean my head against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent that’s all his. Maybe it’s better not to talk about it. I just want to stay in this moment, where I’m happy and content.

*****

I’M HUMMING WHILEI unpack the latest delivery of notebooks we received. Moving their display closer to the till was a genius idea. They’ve been selling like hotcakes. Who can resist a pretty notebook while staring at them when standing in line to pay? I know I can’t. I’ve got at least ten at home.

When I inherited this bookstore from my grandparents, it was faltering. These days, everything is electronic. It’s so much easier and cheaper to download and read an ebook. So, for the survival of Chantler and Cook, I had to make drastic changes.

I took out a small loan and converted one side into a coffee shop. It wasn’t big and only had about three tables and chairs, but I scrimped and saved, and every time I had enough money, I added an extra one.

One of the first things I did was expand my inventory. Now we don’t only sell books. We sell notebooks, journals, board games, novelty pens, and bookmarks.

I then started hosting events. The number of authors I contacted offering to host them for an evening of readings and book signing was crazy, and for every ten I contacted, I was lucky if I got two.

I started running workshops. Workshops on the craft of writing. Workshops on the publishing process of books. Anything and everything to do with books. Those are a huge success. It’s amazing how many aspiring authors are out there.

It’s all paid off, and now I make a tidy profit.

I’m still riding a high from last night. Getting to spend some quality time with Quinn was…everything. And then after, when we got back home? I shiver, remembering the feel of his body sliding against mine. The heat of his lips moving over my body, our moans in the quiet of our apartment.

But it was his whispered words in the dark of the night, the ones that said he’ll pull back at work, that he’ll prioritize us, that has me smiling. That has me hopeful that we can get back to us.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and Olivia sticks her head in.

“Are you going tonight?”

“To what?”

“Scarlett’s farewell party.”

My scowl is instant. “No. I’ve already said my goodbyes. Are you?”

Olivia shakes her head. “We’re meeting up for coffee next week.”

I felt awful for Scarlett when she had to close up shop, but it wasn’t unexpected. The shop was huge, way bigger than what she needed, which meant she had to sell a boatload of soap and bath products just to cover the rental. Her products were good, and if the shop was smaller, I’m sure she would have been successful. I tried to help where I could—a cupboard full of soap at home testimony to that— but it wasn’t enough. Luckily for me, my grandparents had owned this shop, so when I inherited it, paying rent wasn’t something I had to do.

“It’s tacky.”

There are many good reasons to throw a farewell party—retirement, relocating, or finding a better opportunity somewhere else. But because your business tanked and being forced to close up shop? Not so much. There’s not much worse than facing a roomful of your former peers, seeing their pitying looks, and having to field questions like “So, what are you going to do now?” I should be surprised that Addie organized this, but I’m not.

---