Page 3 of A Heart On A Sleeve

Adding to my suspicions about Beau’s management skills, apparently he also takes a long lunch each day from eleven to two so that he can spend time with his beloved cat, Mr. Pickles.

Managing the store part-time was not in the job description.

For the next three hours, I’m on my own.

Thankfully, there isn’t a customer in sight when Beau grabs his messenger bag and bike helmet and heads for the door.

“One more thing before I go. You should look over this and learn all you can. We will have many shoppers interested in the histories this week.” Beau shoves a flyer at me.

Turning on a dime to push his way out the front door, his own clumsiness causes him to slightly catch a toe on the threshold.

I purse my lips tightly, attempting to stifle the giggle that overwhelms me—my new boss is adorable, but it wouldn’t be proper to laugh at his misfortune.

Opting to look at the now-crumpled flyer in a bit, I take in the shop.

It’s stunning and historic with handcrafted built-ins to house the many books on display.

Cherry-wood tables line the center of the room for guests to work quietly, a variety of seating choices sprinkled throughout.

The trinkets are more giftable than cheesy: greeting cards with poetic sayings detailed in calligraphy, beautiful hand-painted journals, and of course, a curated collection of coffee mugs.

One wall is lined floor to ceiling with books, adorned with a sliding ladder for easy access to those out of reach.

If I had to create my very own library, this is exactly what I imagine it would be.

The door chimes, alerting me to my first guest. Here goes nothing.

I swiftly make my way to the front, plastering on my brightest smile, prepared to woo the unsuspecting person into purchasing something. Beau left me alone. I have to prove I can handle this role, despite the very limited training he gave me.

I’m on a mission to make my new boss proud, walking with a purpose until my gaze lands on the same dark denim pants from before, leaning against the open front door.

I stop, frozen, confronted with what is likely the most beautiful yet panic-inducing man I have ever seen staring back at me with what seems like a mixture of intrigue, and maybe annoyance?

His cobalt-blue eyes hit me first, pulling me in like a rip current paired with a strong jaw that’s dusted with a neatly kept beard, and short brown hair that’s a bit too long up top.

He’s sporting a casual look with a white V-neck tee and those pants that unfairly accentuate his powerful thighs.

The panic-inducing part is . . . he’s the one and only (known) witness of my Marilyn Monroe moment.

The man’s covered in tattoos. Every inch of his exposed skin, from the top of his chest, peeking out of his shirt, to his forearms, has ink.

His appearance screams, I’m a walking sex symbol .

Of course, he would be the one who holds the cards of my first and only foray with indecent exposure.

This stranger witnessed the single most mortifying moment of my life, and that’s saying something.

I haven’t exactly had a shortage of mishaps over the years.

I know how to manage them, how to plaster on a grin and pretend it didn’t happen.

How to wear my crown proudly, keep my chin up, and move forward, rather than embarrassing my family.

What I don’t know is what to feel other than dread over him staying either too long or not long enough.

I can’t be sure which, or why I even care, but there’s a brief skip in my heartbeat and a sinking feeling in my stomach that nags, He’s someone important .

I’m desperate to pretend he didn’t just see the full-coverage white briefs I chose to wear today.

Note to self: only leave the house in magazine-worthy panties from now on.

Forcing my smile to stay firmly in place, I muster my courage, fully believing he’s going to be either unbearably smug about our earlier encounter or incredibly lost at having accidentally found himself in a quaint bookstore, face-to-face with, for all intents and purposes, a flasher.

He’s definitely not going to mention what he observed . . . right?

“H-hi there, can I help you?” My voice squeaks a bit with nerves and a Southern twang I’ve spent too many years trying to eradicate from my diction. At this point, it only escapes if I’m on edge or upset about something.

“You must be new in town.” His voice is gruff as he moves closer, allowing the door to close with a click. A smirk lurks at the corner of his full, deliciously edible lips. Do not, I repeat, do not look at his lips. Why on earth is this man affecting me so much?

“Observant,” I mutter quietly to myself while raising an eyebrow. “I’m Olive. Can I help you find something?”

“If I have observed anything, it’s that you”—he points his index finger at my chest—“are new in town.”

Shoot! He heard that. “Yes, I am. Does it matter?”

“Not particularly, I just didn’t want you to think for even a single second that it wasn’t painfully obvious.” A cool and impartial tone laces his words.

“Okay. Are you on the welcoming committee or . . . something?” I ask, trying and failing to tamp down a small huff as I cross my arms. It’s out of character for me to be this worked up, but in my defense, he’s acting like there should have been a flyer passed out introducing me.

I know this is a very small town compared to Mobile, but I really don’t believe it’s that tiny.

Also, can we address the elephant in the room?

I’d rather we don’t, but if I have to deal with it, then let’s just get on with it.

“No, Olive, I’m not. But I do know almost everyone here, and there is zero chance that if you were a local you wouldn’t have held certain things in place while coming around that corner.” A smirk paints his face amused. “Everyone that’s local knows it’s a brutal crosswind.” There it is. Jerk!

“I-I’m . . . well, now you have me flustered. I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen, and I would be really grateful if you did too. Now, is there something I can do for you, sir?”

He flashes me a smile so breathtaking that heat zaps up my spine, releasing a wave of shivers across my skin. My cheeks warm, turning what I can only imagine to be an embarrassing shade of pink.

He steps closer, yet again, nodding toward my strawberry blonde hair. “Still a little mussed, if you ask me. Heck of a first impression, princess.” His gaze lingers on my face. “But I’m here to pick up an order, not talk about your hobby as the new town streaker. Name’s Sam O’Reilly.”

Holy mother of Pearl. The sound of his name tumbles around in my head turning it to soup. I should be pissed that he’s outright mocking me, but I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to someone. I’m a little out of my depth.

“I-I hardly think that qualifies as streaking. If I was planning to make a name for myself, I’d like to believe it would have been a better show. And, uh, please don’t call me princess.” I smile as sweetly as I can—fake it till you make it and all that.

“Sure, princess. Whatever you say. Now my order . . .” It seems like Mr. Smug, motioning toward the counter, would like to end this conversation, maybe even more than I would at this point.

I take back what I said about there being something important about him.

He’s like every other man, managing me and telling me what to do.

“Um, one second. Let me find it.” I dash behind the desk to look on the shelf reserved for pickups.

He clearly isn’t going to let my morning mishap go or stop calling me that ridiculous nickname, so I need to get him to leave pronto while still being polite.

The last thing I want is Beau catching wind of me being anything less than helpful to a customer.

I start pulling books out and placing them in my free arm. Each one is labeled with the customer’s name, but I don’t see any marked Sam. “Are you sure you have an order?” I ask, the pile in my arm growing more difficult to hold by the second.

“Yep.” One word, that’s not helpful at all.

I dip my head lower, checking to see if I missed any books shoved to the back of the shelf, and at the same time the pile in my arms starts to falter.

In my moment of panic— I can’t let these fall, they are fragile and Beau will literally fire me on day one —I lean forward, wrapping myself around them to make somewhat of a cocoon.

I’m so focused that I don’t notice Sam moving toward me until he growls out, “Jesus, let me help you.” My eyes jump to his, horror most certainly painted across my brow.

“I, uh, maybe just—” I don’t have to finish. He wraps his arm around my front and slowly pulls each book out of my grasp. My breathing is unsteady in this close proximity, but it worsens when he reaches for the last book and his fingers lightly graze my forearm.

Good gravy .

When the books are lined carefully on the counter, Sam grabs one, clutching it in his long fingers. “Here it is . . . O’Reilly, just like I said,” he quips, smirking at me. I glance at the label. It reads Mabel not Sam.

“It doesn’t say your name. I’m sorry, I can’t let you take that,” I protest, my stomach queasy with the idea of giving someone the wrong purchase right off the bat.

He ignores me. “It’s my mom’s. I’ll see you around town.

Oh, and a word of advice. Wear something a little less breezy next time.

” Sam turns and walks confidently out the door—as quickly as he arrived, he’s gone.

And me? I’m left wondering who the hell Sam O’Reilly is and how the heck I’m ever going to live this one down.

Shaking it off after a hearty dose of self-deprecation, I decide that I can’t let this ruin my day.

And I should probably tell Ariella before word gets out.

I can assume I’ll be the talk of the town in record time, if I’m not already, and that’s the very last thing I need. I grab my phone and shoot off a text.

Sooo . . . first day’s going great. I flashed all of Mage when the wind blew my dress over my head and Beau already left me to run the shop.

Ari

OMG! Was it when you turned the corner by the candy shop? Sorry, babe . . . should have warned you. Tell me you don’t have on period panties, puhleeease.

They are the only ones I could find in all my boxes.

Ari

?????? Did anyone see?

I leave her on read. She deserves it. These are things that best friends are supposed to share when you move to their hometown at their urging.

Ariella Marino is my kindred spirit, the yin to my yang, yet she often gets caught up, conveniently forgetting to mention the, let’s call it, small details.

When I first met her, at St. Christine’s University in northern Alabama, the pint-sized spitfire had burst through the doorway of our tiny dorm room shouting at her mother just a few steps behind her in the hallway.

With her accent thick with the Boston r , and her dressed in casual cut-off jean shorts, an AC/DC concert tee, and Chuck Taylors—she was my exact opposite.

Ari had forgotten to mention to me that her entire family would be helping her move in.

In minutes, our tiny dorm room was flooded with a slew of Italians shouting about decor, tossing boxes, and scaring the living daylights out of Anne Bowman, otherwise known as my snooty, old-money mother.

A heads-up would have saved me so many lectures from Anne, but I couldn’t help it—as an only child with zero freedom to express myself, I found Ari’s family fascinating.

Ari may be unreliable at times when it comes to the details, but when it counts, she’s always there for me.

Tossing my phone back in my bag, I grab the flyer Beau gave me.

A once-over tells me there is a big town festival this weekend to kick off the fall season.

It’s called the Hollow Hearts Festival, and it’s a celebration of love for the famous witch, Irina Hallowell.

The flyer doesn’t really give much detail as to what the fuss is about, it sounds like the festival will be a fun fall-themed activity regardless.

I don’t have a ton of experience in witchcraft or know much of the history of it, but I figure that worst case, I can make up some swoony unrequited love stories for the tourists who might ask about it this week.

I toss the flyer in my bag, getting back to actual work and planning for upcoming restorations.

That’s the whole reason I’m here, after all—to breathe new beginnings into books that bring life to a beautiful past. From what I can tell, Beau hasn’t been able to keep up with the workload.

I’m going to be busy for the next, I’d wager, six to eight months.