understand. But you don’t have much time left, you hear?” She turned and headed toward the door. Dickens hissed at her on her way out.
* * *
Melissa was shaking when the bell above the door finally jangled and Pam Lyndon left the store. The time had come to make a decision. And, unfortunately, the decision would require her to close Secondhand Prose. Forever.
Her eyes filled with tears as she studied Dickens. “Maybe Jeff will take you,” she whispered, then blew out a long breath. She stood there for a moment, collecting herself and wiping her cheeks.
When she’d regained control, she headed toward the back of the store to examine the damaged pants; then she headed toward the back room.
“Hey, are you okay in there?” she asked through the door.
“I’m good,” Jeff replied. His voice eased her jangled nerves and soothed her aching heart. Just the sound of him calmed her down.
“I just checked your jeans. They’re beyond repair.”
Silence greeted her from the other side of the door, and her momentary melancholy was replaced by something else. It might be fun to open the door and have a good look at him. It would definitely distract her from her problems.
“Guess I picked the wrong day to go commando, huh?” he finally said. “Truth is, I need to do some laundry.”
“Do you do laundry?”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that your wardrobe is always so…”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Together. I figured you took everything to the dry cleaner’s.”
“Well, yeah, I do.”
“There’s a good dry cleaner on South Third Street. Just sayin’.”
“Thanks. But that doesn’t exactly solve my current problem. Got any ideas?”
Melissa had a few, but they were all bad ones. The best thing would be to get him some pants so her libido would go back to sleep.
“Okay, look, hang loose…” She paused a moment because these words brought an image to her mind that was X-rated. “Uh…um, maybe that was the wrong choice of words. Just wait there for a minute, and I’ll get you a pair of pants.”
She checked the size of the shredded jeans and then headed down the street to the Haggle Shop, the local consignment store, where she scoured the rack for a pair of jeans with a thirty-four-inch waist and a thirty-six inseam.
The Haggle Shop had lots of cool vintage stuff, but you never knew what you’d find there, and the selection of guys’ pants in a thirty-six inseam was limited to four pairs of ugly beige khakis and one pair of cool argyle golf pants in kelly green and pastel yellow.
* * *
The pants were loud. And fun. Wearing them was like being invited into Melissa’s slightly weird, totally unique world of fashion. He opened the door to find her standing there with a naughty gleam in her too-blue eyes.
“I like the pants,” he said. “I’m thinking I need more color in my life.” He took a step forward. This time she didn’t retreat, and he caught a whiff of her scent: a mountain meadow.
“Look, Melissa, I overheard what that woman said.” He touched her shoulder, and she pressed herself in to his hand. Just like a cat hunting for a good scratch.
“I’ve been trying to tell you that the bookstore is a lost cause,” she said. “I have to put it up for sale. I’m scheduling an appointment with Walter from Braden Realty on Monday.” Melissa’s voice was full of defeat.
His heart stumbled. “Won’t that play right into that woman’s hand?” His words came out in a rush.
“Maybe. But it’s got to be done. Jeff, I’m sorry. I’ve been sitting here for a few weeks, unable to make a decision. That’s why I left the ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the door. And then you arrived, and I got all caught up in the ridiculous fantasy that maybe I could keep the store going. But I can’t. Taxes are due, and I have to mortgage the place to pay them. But I can’t make mortgage payments by selling used books. There just isn’t enough income in it.” Her voice wobbled as she spoke, and then her eyes filled with tears.
He took her big black glasses off her face and pulled her into his arms. “It’s okay. Just let it out. I’m thinking maybe you haven’t even let yourself cry for your grandmother.”
She didn’t cry. But she leaned against him like Hugo did when he wanted attention. Jeff stroked the back of her head, her curly hair gliding under his palms, igniting a deep yearning.