Page 7 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

BELLE

Inotice a visible lightness in my steps as I go about my normal day at the bookshop. More energy. And several regulars remark on how I’m smiling even more than usual.

It’s not just a result of getting a mind-blowing orgasm last night. It’s the suspense of Jack’s hunt, and my thoughts are whirling with what will happen next. And as exhilarating as the image of me running through town in a Victorian bridal dress with a headless horseman galloping after me, we don’t need to frighten the elderly to a quick heart attack.

Or worse! Start a fan club of monster romance lovers chasing after my Jack. Did I just say my Jack?

What will he do tonight? Where will I meet him? Can I find his manor without him?

I do my best to tame the wandering thoughts as I go about a normal, busy day in Belladonna’s Bookshop—my grandmother’s choice of name. Proud warmth spreads through me at the memory of her telling the tale of how she named me while my mother was still asleep, and my father hadn’t arrived yet.

Apparently, they were vexed, but she pulled the “honor your elders”

card, and they reluctantly agreed while sticking to Bella for most of my life and hiding the rest.

To Mimi, I was always Belladonna or Belle. Because Beauty and the Beast was my favorite fairytale, like so many other cliche bookworms with a monster romance complex.

My Blackmore’s Night Autumnal Playlist echoes faintly from the overhead speakers, and I do a little twirl on my leather ankle boots to their “Locked Within the Crystal Ball”. Because these moments are mine. My burnt orange and black plaid dress swishes as I gleefully bring out a tray of fresh, frosted pumpkin cookies.

Reading books and selling them is my profession. But baking is my favorite hobby, and too many local folks know me and have no qualms about partaking. I’d never sell my treats. They deserve to be enjoyed by all, especially in October.

Evening customers quickly snatch a cookie. ‘Only two a piece, please’, my frame sign reads—so there is enough for everyone.

I swing my thick braid onto my back, though a few recalcitrant curls frame my face. Pumpkin spice Rice Krispies treats will be tomorrow.

“I love your belt,”

a ten-year-old girl gushes while holding a Dr. Who, Time Lord Fairy Tale book.

Smiling, I glance down at the skeletal hands coming together just beneath my cropped black corset.

“Thank you, and I love your taste in books.”

I wink at her, appreciating the rarity of such a young Whovian.

Her eyes light up.

“Who’s your favorite?”

“Pish…”

I wave a hand at the obvious answer.

“Tennant, of course! But as far as I’m concerned, Ncuti Gatwa is giving him a run for his money.”

“I love Matt Smith,”

she mentions.

For the next half hour, we intermittently discuss the Whovian universe because I’ll always make time for my customers, new or familiar, young or old. At the end of the conversation, Emmy takes two cookies and skips away with her book in hand and her light brown waves fluttering behind her. I gave her a free Dr. Who bookmark.

My Tim Burton playlist begins, and I hum “Sally’s Song”

while bringing a mug of coffee to Mrs. Nedra as she sits in her usual leather chair reading the latest true crime novel. She nods in appreciation without looking up—our quiet and comforting routine. She buys a book every week.

Maria is on the hunt for another cookbook, always choosing recipes from pages instead of blogs. I grab one from a table display and hand it to her.

“Great pumpkin soup recipe in here. Breakfast and dinner ones! Perfect for fall.”

“Bless your heart, honey-Belle,”

she says in her strong Tennessee twang.

I notice the 40-something, Mr. Tyler, our local literature professor, snooping through the classic novels.

“Finding anything good?”

I ask. He nods, a small smile on his face.

“Always. Time for a Mary Shelley re-read.”

“Ahh, our iconic author of history’s first and finest horror novel.”

Naturally, that honor goes to a woman, not Bram Stoker or Robert Louis Stevenson. But we do owe Lord Byron for hers and Bram’s inspiration. And Edgar Allan Poe’s, my personal favorite.

“You owe me a visit over a cup of Earl Grey and telling me more about Gaston Leroux,”

I remind him with a wink.

“Name the day!”

he calls back as I return to the counter, skipping the whole way.

Throughout the day, I help a new mother named Chelsea find a lullaby-singing book for her rambunctious toddler, I sell one of my rare titles to Silke, a visiting collector, and deep-talk with our resident philosopher in the quieter evening hours.

I encourage a budding young poet to read her work aloud, which results in our local librarian asking if she has a book of poems.

I also direct new visitors to the Autumn Scavenger Hunt. They search for small, laminated leaf cutouts, each with a little quote or clue, I’ve hidden among the bookshelves and displays. The prize? A cozy autumn-themed gift basket filled with a mug, some cocoa mix, a handmade bookmark, and a free book of their choice.

Twilight encroaches, but we still have some customers remaining. Ugh, it’ll soon be dark, and a certain horny headless horseman will be on the prowl.

I pack up the remaining blind-date-with-a-book boxes with their autumnal accompaniments, like a fall-themed candle, maple caramel corn from our town’s candy maker, and artisan coffee and tea. A warm wool scarf, knitted by yours truly, completes the ensemble. My second favorite hobby, next to baking, is knitting, especially during this season.

The fading of the twilight to welcome dusk sets my spirit in a tizzy. Tingles break out all over my skin, my nerve endings sizzling as I tidy up the bookshop, clearing plates with their cookie crumbs and bringing mugs to the kitchen.

As I do, a knock at the back door has me jumping. Gooseflesh buds on my skin as I suspect who it might be. Just as I go to touch the handle, the front doorbell jingles, announcing a new customer. I lean back, peering through the gap in the bookshelves.

Shit!

My insides knot with frustration. It’s Mrs. Kravitson. Ugh! Naturally, she would choose the absolute worst time to appear.

“Belle dear?”

She calls in a voice like rusty nails. She’s already peering into every corner like she’s conducting a health inspection.

I race to the back, yank open the door, and drag Jack inside by his collar like a misbehaving dog. He’s headless, as usual. Uh, did I expect anything different? I press a finger to my lips, eyes wide in a silent, desperate plea.

Did you just shush me? Oh, my naughty, naughty Belladonna. He purrs, voice dripping with amusement. Afraid I’ll shout at the top of my lungs?

Rolling my eyes, I jab a thumb toward the storage room.

“Just wait here while I get rid of the last guest,”

I whisper.

“Belle?”

Mrs. Kravitson calls out, her tone sharper, and I can practically feel her eyes boring holes into the back of my head.

He brings his hands behind his back, leaning down. Oh, the jackass doesn’t need a head for me to know he’s smirking. Every drop of him oozes a teasing smirk. If this rattles you so, imagine how you’ll fare when I truly set my sights on the hunt.

He might not be able to see, but I give him a glare that promises retribution.

Shoving him closer to the storage room, I mutter a very stern “stay”

and hustle back to the front. Mrs. Kravitson has already made herself at home, plopping her oversize purse on the counter.

“Belle, darling! Still single, I see. Your biological clock is louder than Big Ben at this point!”

She pats my arm with a condescending smile.

“Oh, Mrs. Kravitson,”

I chirp, too eager to get rid of her, “you’re just in time to hear how much I love my independence.”

My voice drips with the sweetest sarcasm.

“And what brings you here so late? A hankering for mystery novels at bedtime?”

She waves her hand dismissively.

“I found a coupon in the flier for a free bookmark with a purchase! Expiration date is tomorrow, you know!”

Of course. All my insides wriggle. She’s the only person alive who would show up at sunset for a free bookmark.

A loud creak and a muffled thump come from the back, and my heart nearly leaps out of my throat.

“Oh, just the cat!”

I blurt, hoping she doesn’t address my flustered state.

“He’s being quite the troublemaker. Let me just?—”

Mrs. Kravitson narrows her eyes.

“A cat, you say? I didn’t know you had one.”

The sound of a door creaking open and a muffled crash comes from the back room. My eyes widen in panic. God, what is he doing? He’s a headless guy, but he’s making more noise than a bull in a damn china shop!

“He’s a new addition,”

I nudge her warmly to the counter, pointing to the various bookmarks.

“Adopted him last week. His name is Mortimer. Why don’t you check out the bookmarks, and I’ll go see what he’s up to?”

I don’t wait for her to respond. I hurry back to the kitchen. My jaw drops at the sight of Jack kicking the tangled twinkle lights with his boots. Multiple boxes from the storage room are scattered about.

I can explain…he says right before closing the distance between us.

“You need to be quiet.”

My blood smolders as he toys with my corset strings.

Not to worry, my Belle. I’ll be quiet. But you certainly won’t when I’m done with you.

I firmly push him away. “Behave,”

I say through gritted teeth, glancing nervously at the bookshop where Mrs. Kravitson is holding a bookmark while eyeing the back room with curiosity.

Jack takes my waist again and tugs harder at the few laces. I squirm, my cheeks reddening.

“Jack, please!”

I whisper.

“Not here!”

Care for a change of scenery? Say the word, and I will sweep you off your feet and carry you out of the shop.

Pinching my eyes, I grab the nearest broom and shove it at him.

“Make yourself useful and sweep up your mess instead.”

I give him a final stern look before swiping the key on the wall hook and locking the door behind me. I blow a sigh of relief when I find Mrs. Kravitson fiddling with more bookmarks.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kravitson, but it’s closing time.”

Mrs. Kravitson huffs, adjusting her hat.

“Well, I suppose I must be going then. And Belle, you really should consider?—”

“Yes, yes,”

I cut in smoothly, handing her a small, wrapped book.

“Here, a little gift for you. Consider it a thank you for your visit and reminding me about my biological clock.”

“You know my nephew is a fine catch, and he would?—”

“Yes, we will discuss that next time.”

I open the front door and softly urge her outside.

“Thanks for stopping by. Always a pleasure.”

I all but slam the door behind her, twist the lock, and lean against it, exhaling in relief. Turning, I catch sight of Jack peering out from behind a shelf—um, make that his body peering—the dim light intensifying his eeriness.

“That was close,”

I mutter, crossing the room to meet him.

“We need to discuss boundaries.”

You say ‘boundaries,’ I hear ‘temptation.’ What, I wonder, is a headless, horny man to do?

I really regret telling him what horny means.