Page 15 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

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.

A college 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 all day,” 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.”

“We try,” he said, smiling. Then he glanced at me, and his smile warmed by a few degrees. “I cannot wait for tomorrow night.”

My ears went hot. I took an unnecessary sip of latte to hide my face. “Me either.”

He reached out, almost absent minded, and picked up one of the hardcovers I had stacked near the register.

A book with a discreet floral cover. A book that had been set aside with Carol’s others.

He flipped it open with his thumb, the way people do when they are not really paying attention, and his eyes fell to the center of the page.

His eyebrows climbed.

Before I could get around the counter, he cleared his throat and began to read.

“‘ He towered over her, shadows licking across the stone, his horns tipping forward as he caged her in with one clawed hand. Tell me you want my teeth, little star. ’ Is this the type of books you sell?”

“Dean,” I hissed, lunging.

He pivoted away without even looking at me, which meant his voice carried perfectly through the shop.

“‘ She tried to be brave. I am not afraid of monsters, she whispered. He laughed. Good. Because I am going to devour you until you forget your own name.’ I like the way this guy thinks.”

“Give me that,” I said, trying not to laugh and failing. I grabbed for the book. He held it high. I am not tall. Life is not fair.

In the stacks, Mike looked up and grinned like Christmas had come early.

Dean took two steps back, eyes wicked, and kept going in a tone of mock drama that made my stomach hurt.

“ ‘He tasted her fear like sugar. He tasted her need like wine. He said open for me, little star, and she— ’”

“Dean Bennett,” I said, breathless, “if you read the next line in my shop, I will ban you for life.”

He tipped the book just out of my reach, still reading. “ —‘and she opened like a night-blooming flower, ready to receive his massive... ’”

I clapped a hand over his mouth on reflex. He laughed against my palm and it was very possible I lost two full years off my life. He looked so pleased with himself. The uniform did not help. His eyes sparkled with a kind of boyish mischief that should have been illegal.

“Excuse me,” a voice cut in, mild and crisp. “Young man.”

We both froze. Slowly, Dean lowered the book. Slowly, we turned.

Carol stood with her hands folded on the head of her cane, which she did not actually need but which she used like punctuation. Her expression was pure society matron, polite and unimpressed. Her blue gaze flicked to the book, then to Dean’s face.

“That is my book,” she said.

Dean’s jaw dropped a fraction. His eyes darted from the discreet floral cover to the elegant woman in pearls, then back again, then back to her. He looked like a man whose mental picture had just fallen out of a window.

“You… this… is yours ,” he said, faintly.

“Indeed,” Carol said. “I would appreciate it returned uncreased. I do not tolerate folded corners.”

Mike snorted behind a stack of sports memoirs, then coughed to disguise it. It did not work.

Dean held the book out with both hands like an offering. “Ma’am,” he said. “I am very sorry for the… dramatic reading.”

“Dramatic?” Carol considered. “I would call it enthusiastic. If you wish to audition for the audiobook, I suggest fewer pauses.” She took the book and tucked it into her bag with regal efficiency.

Then she patted Dean’s forearm. “You wear the uniform beautifully, dear. Try not to frighten the proprietress with it.”

“I will do my best,” he said, color high on his cheekbones.

I was laughing so hard I had to set my latte down. I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and tried to pull myself together. “You two,” I said, pointing at Dean and Mike. “This is a bookshop, not a pub.”

Mike wandered closer, flipping his new book closed. “I didn't do anything,” he said. “I was on my best behaviour.”

Dean leaned his hip against the counter and looked at me over the rim of my cup. The shop melted around the edges. He had the kind of focus that made a small space out of a crowded room. I could feel Carol’s knowing gaze flick between us like a tennis match.

“You look good,” he said simply. “Happy.”

“This latte helps,” I said, trying for nonchalant and missing by a mile.

“I knew it,” he said. “Cinnamon solves everything.”

He glanced toward the children’s section where a mother and toddler were investigating a board book with flaps. He looked back to me and lowered his voice. “How is your day otherwise?”

“Good busy,” I said. “Books flying off shelves, no floods, no roof leaks. Five people asked for recommendations and only one whispered the request.”

“What did the whisperer want?”

“Something that would make her forget she owned a phone,” I said. “I sent her home with a trilogy and strict instructions not to sleep.”

He grinned. “Cruel.”

“Effective,” I said.