Page 22

ALANA

I don’t bother asking Mrs. Middler’s grandson for help to move books.

And I sure as hell don’t ask Chris—because the risk that he might bring Tommy is too much to bear.

So I spend the next few days hauling dusty books from one end of the shop to the other, clearing out space and creating some semblance of organization, starting with fiction on one side and non-fiction on the other.

Soon, I’ll break the fiction into genres, and after that, authors and series.

But until then, I destroy my sinuses with years-old dust and work muscles I’d forgotten I owned. And all the while, I fend off all the things I don’t want.

Like Helen.

“Marianne has had another discussion with acquisitions,” she drones, tired of this conversation and ready, surely, to toss me on my ass.

Is that what I want?

“They’re willing to increase your offer by fifteen percent, Alana.

They can pencil you in for a summer release next year.

But you need to come to the table, babe.

You long ago sprinted past difficult-to-deal-with and dove headfirst into diva.

You’re making a name for yourself in the publishing world, and I have to admit, it’s not a good one. ”

“I’m not playing hard to get.” I heft a heavy box, lifting with my legs and ignoring the pain in my back as I straighten out with a huff, and then I slowly carry it toward the back of the store where my piles are growing.

“ I’m not trying to be a diva. I’m telling you, I’m not willing to sell the story right now. ”

“Why the heck not? This is literally why we’re here, Alana.

I’m an agent. You’re a writer. We put you on submission.

You even went to auction, which is a dream most others would kill for.

But at the eleventh hour, you refuse the deal that shook out.

They’re offering more despite having won the auction fair and square, and now you’ve got cold feet? ”

“It’s not about cold feet, either.” I waddle, much like I did in my seventh month of pregnancy when my son’s head was tucked perilously low, and his little body was ready to evacuate, albeit a little too soon.

“I changed my mind. I’m not ready to share my story with the world. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well, when will you be ready? Because accepting the deal today doesn’t mean publication is today. Next summer is a full year away, and by then, you might wish you didn’t screw around so much this year.”

“I’ll write you a different book.” I set the box down with a grunt and press my hands to the top, leaning over it and taking a moment to catch my breath. “I can write something else entirely, and we’ll submit that. Give me, like…” I draw a heaving breath and swipe my sweaty brow. “Three months.”

“They do not want a different book!” She shouts and still, somehow, makes it sound classy.

Sophisticated. A gift my mother possesses, too.

“They want Love and War , Alana. They want the story you wrote about a boy whose heart was bigger than the chaos surrounding him. This isn’t a game, and stories are not interchangeable in this world.

Not when you’re a debut and have yet to prove your worth.

They’re not asking for any old book penned by this unknown author.

They want that specific story, and if you don’t cut the shit soon, you’re going to have their lawyers crawling up your backside. ”

“I’ve yet to accept a single dollar.” Turning from the box, I head back across the shop to get more.

“And even if I had, my only penalty would be to repay the advance. You won’t spook me with legal threats, Helen.

” I’m untouchable . Those are the words that tickle the back of my throat.

I’ve already walked through hell and come out the other side .

But those are not the words I share with her.

Instead, I grab another box and earn the sundae I intend to eat after dinner tonight.

“I’m not playing games, and I’m not interested in arguing about it.

Pull the book. I’ve already told you more than a few times. ”

“You’re impossible!” She huffs and ends our call, so the music I was playing before she interrupted starts again, filling the shop with its tinny sound.

And because I think of it, I make a mental note to request decent speakers from Mrs. Middler’s budget.

Just a modest stereo or something, so when customers wander through and end up at the very back end of the warehouse-esque building, the music they hear won’t sound like it’s coming from a tin can.

“Are you here alone?”

“Argh!” I throw the box and spin, ninja hands at the ready and the ghost of a memory of what were once fight lessons pulsing through my veins.

But my lips peel back into a feral sneer when I find Tommy freakin’ Watkins standing by the shop door, a tight shirt hugging his chest and jeans that wrap around his thick thighs, emphasizing what I suppose I’d forgotten.

He was always stocky. Solidly built, even when he was young and hungry. But now he has his own money, a training regime, dietary plans, and though it’s only an assumption, I doubt he’s living with a tyrannical abuser who kicks the shit out of him simply for existing.

The boy he used to be grew into a man swollen in all the right places.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” And yet, he kicks one foot over the other and chews on a Silly Stix straw, his lips curling around the plastic and his perfect, white teeth glittering behind a smug smile.

Ten years ago, I’d have killed to see his eyes dance the way they do now. To see him so outwardly happy would have made my heart sing. But today, when he looks at me like that, it’s like he has an inside joke, and all mocking fingers point toward me.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He gestures toward the dropped box, the sides split wide open, and books splayed on the floor between us. “That was probably too heavy for you.”

“What are you doing here?” Anger courses through my veins as I crouch and try to pull the box back to its bottom.

I straighten what’s twisted and stack books before the covers bend.

“I’m working, and you look like you’ve got somewhere to be.

So why don’t you…” I slap a heavy hardcover book to the top of the pile and wave toward the doors at his back. “Go.”

“I asked you a question.” His kindness slips, revealing something darker, something menacing and dangerous beneath.

“Are you here alone? It’s almost dark outside, and maybe we’re in the asshole of nowhere, and most psychopaths linger around the cities, but times have changed since you were last in Plainview. Where’s Franklin? ”

“At the house with my mother.” Giving up on the box, I stand tall and stare down my nose at the man who wants so desperately to challenge me.

“They’re making an evening of it, which means I had time to spare.

Getting this place into shape is taking longer than I hoped, and lugging hundred-pound boxes is significantly less torturous when it’s not as hot outside.

” I gesture toward the door again. “Asked. Answered. Now you can go.”

“Not entirely sure why you’re pissy at me.” He drags the straw away from his lips. “Wasn’t me who fucked us over. But here you go, swinging through town and chewing me out at every chance you get. Feels a little Bitsy-Special Gaslighty to me.”

“ That’s what we’re doing, huh?” I hate him.

I loathe him. I want to hurt him even half as much as he hurts me.

“You’re that guy? The one who’ll take my deepest, darkest secrets and lob them in my face all because you’re in a bad mood?

I cried about her for years, Tommy. But now you’ll take your payback by saying I’m just like her? ”

“If it quacks like a duck and waddles like a duck…”

“Get the hell out!” I will not cry. I will not scream. Most importantly, I will not beg for his mercy. Though, the last feels the most impossible of them all. “This store is not open for business, which means you’re trespassing. Get out and stay the fuck away from me.”

“I remember, back when we were young and fighting, it was more of a knock ‘em down, drag ‘em out kind of thing. We were loud and mean and often ended up in bed together, fucking away our frustrations and rewarding each other with orgasms so good they felt illegal. Honestly, I figured you picked fights with me so often because you were horny.”

“I said leave.”

“But now , I guess you deal with your anger by cutting a man off. Leave town. Leave the gym. Kick him out. Whatever the circumstances, you starve every argument of oxygen instead of stoking the flames.”

“Yeah, it’s called maturity.” I sneer. “Maybe you missed class the day they taught that.”

“Probably.” He backs up to the door, but instead of walking through it, he leans against the glass pane and makes damn sure no one passes in or out.

“Chances are, I was hidden away somewhere with blood in my piss and a broken rib or two. But you were always such a doll about taking notes and bringing them back to me. You didn’t want me to miss out on the education we both knew I’d need.

Ya know, to break cycles and escape poverty, knowledge is power and all that shit. ”

“Uh-huh, and seeing as how you’re a successful business owner now, I guess my labors paid off. You’re welcome.” For the third time, I gesture toward the door. “Go.”

“Chris does most of the books and stuff down at the gym.” He makes no move to get the hell out of my space, folding his arms instead, which results in his shoulders growing larger and his chest swelling with what I know was a workout earlier today.

“Mostly, my success comes from pro-fighting. Kinda ironic, don’t you think, that I’d use the skills my parents beat into me to earn a living?

Did I break a cycle, or did I dress it up and make it socially palatable? ”