Tamina

"Thank you, Quin," I beam, hoping he can hear the gratitude in my tone. "It's called Passion for the Game by Sylvia Day."

Quinton is fast in retrieving the chunky laptop from a compartment within the desk, notching his glasses up once again.

"How are your parents doing, by the way?" I ask, nosing at the pale pink, laminated poster propped against the back of the till screen.

Included in the meal for two: Steak, champagne, flowers, candles, and a box of chocolates.

"They're doing well, thanks." The reflection of the screen illuminates in his glasses. The keys click in a fast rhythm, minus the few backspaces and corrections. "How are yours?"

I smile at the thought of my mum knee-deep in dirt as she tends to her plants, how my dad will be conversing with his client in the back seat of his car.

"They're good, thank you."

While Quinton works his magic, memories hit me as I stare at the doorway behind him.

Within the small opening, I remember sliding books off the shelf lining both sides; desirables, we called them because people desperately wanted copies ordered. On the other side, on the left, I remember the reasonably sized staffroom where I would take my thirty-minute break and nibble on their brownie bites. Across from it was where I sat, sorting through the stock into genres and bringing them through for the shelves.

I do miss being here, amongst the books and the friendly faces. But volunteering was only going to get me so far.

Now I'm at the point it let me reach.

The notion that after eight years of visiting, nothing has changed brings a smile to my face.

The feeling doesn't last long when the corner of Quinton's mouth turns down. The eagerness and hope whoosh out of me.

He offers an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to say we don't have any copies right now. . ." Closing the laptop with one hand, the other flicks his mop back from his eyes. "But I can have a word with my parents to see if they will be able to purchase it from the publisher or distributors; that's in their expertise, not mine."

The frustration ebbs away at the sight of the book on the counter, and the notion they can get more in lifts my spirits.

"Thank you for checking anyway, Quin." I give him one of my best reassuring smiles. "I'll be back."

"No problem at all, Terminator." He chuckles. "I haven't asked, how's work going for you?"

He picks up the book I laid flat on the counter, giving it one more inspection.

Looks like I'm not the only one who's curious about this mystery.

"A little quiet," I admit. "Then again, I can't complain."

I try to grin, but I know it doesn't quite meet my eyes.

It gives me a decent wage, some of the staff are nice, the manager treats us well, and the hours work for me. There is an area for improvement, but I won't give up on it.

He doesn't waste time in collecting a sticky note, a luminescent orange one. I catch the title I'm after, and before I can see the rest, he puts it under the desk.

"That bad boy is so I don't forget." There's a pause as he squints ever so slightly.

Unsure of what's caught his attention, I glance over my shoulder, then down at myself.

Did I spill tea on me somewhere?

My shirt comes back stain-free.

Maybe I didn't wipe the toothpaste away properly.

Using the pads of my fingers, I rub at the corners of my mouth.

To my surprise, rather than pointing out an embarrassing mistake, he says, "Have you done something different with your hair?" His eyes drop to the desk momentarily, causing his hair to flop in front of his glasses. "It looks nice."

Inspecting the damp ends, nothing comes to mind other than the unexpected shower on the way here. It's nearly dried, meaning it most likely appears frizzier. As much as the compliment is sweet, I don't want to embarrass him by saying nothing has changed.

"Oh, uh. . . thank—"

"Is everything alright over here?"

My shoulders stiffen at the abrupt baritone behind me. Investigating, I find Brandon coming to a stop on my left. The familiar shades from yesterday cover his eyes, but I can't shake the feeling they're darting between me and Quinton.

Heat shimmies up the length of my neck and spreads through my cheeks. Fiddling with the hem of my shirt, I pick at the beginning of a fray.

"Sorry, we were just catching up," I inform, letting a small smile show as I swing my hand toward Quinton. "Brandon, this is Quinton; he and his parents own Brooks and Books." I make a gesture toward Brandon. "Quinton, this is Brandon."

It's strange to think that eight years have gone by, recalling how our greeting didn't officially begin until the age of sixteen. Now the two of us bicker like two mothers waiting at the school gates for their children to finish.

I glance between the two of them.

Why aren't they saying anything to each other?

As if following the same track as my thoughts, Brandon inclines his head but doesn't engage in the conversation. Quinton merely sticks his hand up in a short wave, his eyes returning to the till.

Compared to the time I spent with Brandon in the romance aisle, this is a completely different side to him. He's more secluded, firm, and dare I say it, cold. I'm not sure what's changed, but it's starting to become unsettling.

Shifting from one foot to the other, I do my best to ignore the burning of Brandon's focus on the side of my face. Nibbling my lip, I pray internally for this to come to an end.

"That will be seven pounds and ninety-nine pence when you're ready," Quinton prompts, still transfixed by the screen.

Scrambling for my backpack, I slide the straps down my shoulder with a shimmy. I manage to find my phone sitting at the bottom of the empty space, my fingers fumbling with the case to slide my card from the slot within.

I jolt at the beep, the alarming sound signalling a transaction has been completed. My card hangs uselessly between my fingers as my stomach twists.

Turning to Brandon, my face notches up a few degrees.

The first words out of my mouth are, "Why did you do that?"

"Think of it as a token of my gratitude for helping me," he murmurs, and I can feel the intensity of his gaze behind his shades. "Now, let's go."

I'm hyper-aware of the heat radiating in my lower back, the direct contact of his palm a silent signal that it's time for us to take our leave. I manage to squeak out a quick goodbye and a thank you over my shoulder to Quinton, who simply gawks at our awkward departure.

Brandon is swift in sliding his gadget inside his back pocket, the hoodie shifting over his chest with every move.

I avert my eyes.

What do I say to him now—

My steps falter when his arm appears directly in front of me. In his outstretched hand is my newest purchase. His hand makes it look smaller, which is absurd.

Taking it tentatively, I avoid his gaze and hide behind my hair.

To say I don't relieve the book of the pressure of my own intense scrutiny is an understatement. I'm happy to have a new read; after a stressful shift, there's nothing better than huddling up with a book, a warm drink, and a movie, or something as simple as music.

The joy doesn't last long as doubt simmers low in my gut, slowly building as we close in on the exit.

What if he bought it because I was taking so long?

Words of a distant memory flood in, chilling me where the caress of joy had been. "You always dawdle. What would you have done if there was a line?"

"T-thank you for the book. . . you shouldn't have," I murmur, clutching not only my bag but the book as well to my chest.

Brandon strides ahead of me. "It was nothing, here"—he swings the door open with one hand while offering a gentleman-worthy smile—"after you."

In my attempt to slip past, my shoulder brushes against his chest, the firmness evident through the material. In a hasty ruffle, I shove my new book inside the backpack before zipping the seam as we finally step into the drizzle.

The warmth is left behind for the next bout of customers, leaving the breeze to coat my moistening skin. I fight off the shiver rolling through my body.

The light spits are easily spotted in the shadowed areas beneath the parked cars. Steady and relaxed.

Unlike earlier, the streets are vacant. At this hour, everyone has either returned to work, is getting ready to pick their children up, or is simply calling it for the day.

I know once I'm done here, I'll be ready to sink into the sofa with something warm in my belly.

Hoisting the backpack straps onto my shoulders, I grip my arms to preserve the heat. Adjusting the collar of my shirt, the damp patches are doing their best to dry, but it's futile against the new wave. Glancing at the sky, it's a murky grey rather than an angry shade that usually promises a downpour.

If I'm quick, there's a chance I can make it before the risk of another unwanted shower.

Brandon's still regarding me with that steely focus of his, unmoving even when I meet him head-on. Tiny sprays of water bounce off his hood, but unlike him, I have to blink more than twice to clear the sprinkles creeping past my lashes.

Casting a bashful look behind me, I scuff the concrete with the side of my shoe. "I can pay you back; it's no trouble at all."

He waves a hand. "There's no need. Like I said before, think of it as a thank you."

Nibbling my lower lip, I quietly nod. My brain stumbles to conjure something to say—anything—but nothing comes to mind other than a polite goodbye.

"I have to go this way." I shove a thumb over my shoulder in the general direction. "It was nice to meet you, Brandon, and thank you again for the book."

My stomach churns at the thought of not being able to pay, but I know no matter how much I ask him, he won't let me.

With a visible incline of his head, his voice comes out smooth and almost practiced. "The pleasure was mine."

Offering a smile, I extend my hand toward him—this time, making sure it's dry. "I hope to see you again; it made a change to have some company."

Brandon's fingers circle mine, and unlike before, he doesn't pull away with haste. "I'll make sure to stop by more often."

And I hope he does. Not to see me, but to give Brooks & Books a chance. It's a cosy place once you get to know it better.

With an awkward shuffle, I give a slight wave. "Well, have a good evening."

As I pivot away, there's an overwhelming feeling to simply facepalm myself. Only when my back is turned do I do so, cursing myself for being a bumbling fool.

But I doubt I'll see him again. Even though these chance encounters happened twice in a row, I've never seen him around before.

I smile.

However, it falters three steps later, and my body freezes as a warm grip hooks around my wrist. The contact is unexpected, but the notion that it's only Brandon standing arm's length from me douses me with ease.

Swallowing, I swivel fully to show he has my attention. "Is everything OK?"

Brandon remains silent, like he's contemplating whether he should reveal what's on his mind or keep it to himself. I'm not sure if lending an encouraging word would help, but I open my mouth to do it just in case. Then he releases a small breath, pausing the words dangling on my tongue.

"Tomorrow, can we meet here and go for coffee?"