Oh, Christmas Night Page 2

  Atticus pointed to a corner building across the street. “You’re not far. Grey’s is down one block, opposite side of the street, and the diner is down one more block, same side of the road.”

  “Grey’s it is. Thank you,” she answered, teeth chattering, before dashing across the street.

  He watched her go, wondering idly if that was the Rachel Mills he was looking for, and then thought it unlikely that the one person he came to see, would be the one person asking him for directions. But he would see Rachel tomorrow, and all he had to do was convince her to sell, and he’d be on his way back to Houston. He wasn’t worried about getting her to sell, either. Everyone had their price. Soon he’d know hers.

  *

  It had taken Rachel two flights to reach Bozeman from Orange County, and then a forty-minute drive in a rental car on a windy, snow-dusted road with hidden icy patches that caught her by surprise, making the drive a bit more white knuckled than she’d anticipated.

  Admittedly, her knowledge of Montana was pretty much zilch, and she’d expected some mountains, but the freezing wind that tugged at her coat and blew her hair around her head as she stepped out of the car at the Bramble House caught her by surprise.

  She was greeted warmly by the bed and breakfast’s staff, and after a quick check-in was given an equally efficient tour before being shown upstairs to her room, and suggesting a few spots nearby for dinner, an easy walk to downtown if Rachel dressed warmly.

  Bundled up, Rachel left Bramble House and walked two blocks to Second Street, crossing Crawford, and then Church Street, before coming to Main, and that was when she got confused. The street was quiet and dark, despite the pretty Christmas decorations festooned to the old-fashioned streetlamps. Nearly all of the buildings were two stories tall, and most were brick, or a mixture of brick and wood, with a Western façade.

  She’d looked right and left, and then back toward the courthouse in the distant park, the dome of the courthouse bathed in light, the same light that made the peak of a big mountain standing sentry behind the town gleam. Which way was she supposed to go?

  That was when she spotted the man on the corner, and thankfully he sorted her out and now she was stepping into Grey’s Saloon, grateful to be out of the cold. A rugged-looking man in his thirties was working the bar and he nodded at her and told her to sit wherever she liked.

  Rachel chose one of the empty tables as far from the jukebox as possible, and after peeling her coat and mittens and hat off, plucked the laminated menu from the condiment holder. She spotted the cobb salad and closed the menu. Done. White wine, a salad, and then tomorrow she’d find the bookstore, unlock the front door, and see what lay inside.

  And then what?

  What was she doing here? What was she thinking?

  “That’s a heavy sigh,” the bartender said, now at her side.

  She grimaced. “It’s been a long day.”

  “What can I get you then?”

  “The cobb salad and a glass of white wine. I’m not picky. Whatever you think is good works for me.”

  He nodded. “Make sure yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back with the wine.”

  Her phone rang as the bartender walked away, and Rachel tugged off her scarf as she took the call. “Hello, Dad.”

  “You’ve arrived safely?” he asked.

  “I have. Just sat down to dinner, too. There really is no need to worry about me.”

  “I still think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

  “I’m not allowed to come see where Mom was from?”

  “Of course you are, but this gift from Lesley. It’s not practical. She has never been practical—”

  “And yet Mom adored her.”

  “Just don’t lose your head.”

  She refused to be provoked. “When have I ever done that?”

  “I predict it’s a crumbling building, overrun with silverfish,” he said darkly.

  “Haven’t seen the bookstore yet, but happy to send a report tomorrow. Now, good night, Dad, and don’t worry so much. Everything is going to be fine.” Hanging up, Rachel peeled the rest of her layers off, piling them onto the bench seat next to her.

  The woman at the booth in front of her turned around and flashed a friendly smile. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” she said, tucking a long dark strand of hair behind her ear, “but I heard the word bookstore and my ears perked up. You’re not Lesley’s goddaughter, Rachel from Southern California, are you?”

  Rachel blinked, surprised. “I am.”

  The woman reached over the top of the booth and extended her hand. “I’m Taylor Sheenan, the head librarian at Marietta’s library, and a fellow book lover. So pleased to meet you.”

  Rachel shook hands thinking this wasn’t the time to announce that she wasn’t actually a book lover. If anything, she tended to tolerate books rather than embrace them. “Rachel Mills,” she answered. “How did you hear about me?”

  “Lesley and I have stayed in touch and she emailed me last week to say that she’d gifted the store to her goddaughter Rachel from Southern California. And now here you are.”

  “Here I am,” Rachel echoed uncomfortably.

  “It will be wonderful to have the store open for Christmas.”

  “I’m not sure the store will be open for Christmas. I’m only here for a week or two.”

  “Oh.” Taylor looked surprised, and then disappointed, and then she masked the disappointment with a polite smile. “Welcome to Marietta. Hope you enjoy your visit.”

  The bartender arrived with Rachel’s salad and wine, but Rachel’s appetite had faded, and she half-heartedly stabbed her fork into the salad.

  She wasn’t sure she was prepared for Marietta after all.

  Fortunately dinner, and a good night’s sleep, helped restore Rachel’s equilibrium and she set off the next morning for Main Street again, stopping at Java Café for a coffee and scone before going to the bookstore.

  She stood outside the store for a minute just taking it in. She’d stood on this very corner last night, getting directions from the man, and last night in the dark, she hadn’t realized this was her store, and there was the painted wooden sign, hunter green with a pale gold outline. Paradise Books.

  Even though the big Plateglass windows were shuttered on the inside, she felt a little thrill. This store was hers now. How crazy was that?

  Eager now to see just what Lesley had given her, Rachel unlocked the front door and turned on lights, delighted to discover her father was wrong. The brick building wasn’t crumbling in any way, nor was it terribly musty after being closed for the past three plus years. Rachel set to work opening the wooden shutters, exposing the large expanse of glass and inviting the sun in. Outside it was a bright blue winter sky, and the streaming sun made the dust spirals look like swirling flecks of gold.

  Thanks to the sun, Rachel could finally make out the window display, an ode to Valentine’s Day, with red foil hearts and ivory cupid statues posed between popular romances from the nineteenth century—Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Leo Tolstoy, Thomas Hardy. She wasn’t sure War and Peace, or Jude the Obscure, would make anyone’s list of top romance novels, but she’d give her godmother points for trying.

  Rachel turned to face the interior of the store. So many leather-bound books. Such beautiful crown molding. Even the scattered upholstered armchairs looked elegant with their jeweled brocades and velvets. It was all so very different from her normal life. It was like being swept into a fairy tale, only this wasn’t her fairy tale. This fairy tale was meant for someone else, someone more like Lesley, someone who’d treasure the books and history of the place.

  Rachel was far too practical. She knew the value of a steady paycheck and a solid 401K plan. Small business owners didn’t have that security, or retirement benefits.

  Owning a used bookstore would provide even less security. No one wanted real books anymore. Everyone was decluttering and dumping their books, never mind books that were a half century
old.

  But what about those who actually lived here? Did anyone besides the librarian miss their old store? Or had everyone who read books gone digital? It made sense in a place like Marietta that was buried with snow months out of the year. Buying the newest bestseller from an online retailer would be the easy thing to do. Technology had changed the world and there was no going back.

  But as Rachel stood in in the middle of this lovely light-filled space with the enormous windows and rich, dark shelves, she wished she was someone a little less practical. Someone who didn’t live her life by numbers. Because the numbers were stacked against Paradise Books. The numbers, once added up, labeled this lovely old store a money pit.

  The small bell on the front door jingled as it opened. Rachel wiped her dusty hands on the back of her jeans and turned to watch a tall, good-looking man in a sophisticated gray suit cross the threshold, his narrowed gaze skimming the interior before resting on her.

  “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “The lights were on. Wondered if you were open.”

  He was familiar, she thought, especially his voice, with that hint of drawl. She’d asked him for directions last night, hadn’t she? “Not exactly,” she answered, wondering if he recognized her. “I think you were the nice person who got me to Grey’s for dinner last night.”

  His lips quirked. “I wondered,” he said, his voice deep and firm.

  Last night he’d merely been information. Today he was pure fascination. The man was tall and seriously good-looking—thick, wavy brown-black hair, straight brows, chiseled jaw—this kind of handsome didn’t just walk through the door every day. At least, not her door.

  Of course, she was wearing an old sweater and her favorite Levi’s while he looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of a men’s magazine, his light gray dress shirt partially unbuttoned, exposing the column of his throat, hinting at a muscular chest. An unbuttoned collar wouldn’t look out of place in California, but this was Montana and there was dirty snow piled up on the street corners and his bronzed throat and chest made it appear as if he’d just returned from the Maldives.

  “So you’re not open,” he said.

  “I’m just doing an inspection,” she answered, “figuring out what’s what.”

  “The store’s been closed a long time.”

  “Almost three years,” she said.

  He nodded absently, as if he’d expected her to say that, and glanced around once more, his gaze studying the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, shelves that filled up most of the downstairs. “You’re the one I’ve come to see,” he said after a moment, focusing on her again, his voice filling her with warmth.

  “Me?”

  “You’re Rachel Mills.”

  He’d caught her off guard. How did he know her name? “Yes, I’m Rachel.”

  “The new owner of the bookstore.”

  He didn’t say it as a question, but a statement, which made her wonder if everyone in Marietta knew about Lesley’s gift to her. “Yes.”

  He extended his hand. “Atticus Bowen.”

  “Atticus?”

  “My mother loved To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  She smiled reluctantly. “You’re Southern, too.”

  “Texan. Houston.”

  “South Texas.”

  He laughed, and his teeth were very white, and his eyes very blue. “Lesley told me I’d find you here this week, so I flew in to meet you.”

  “You flew in to meet me?”

  “Just arrived last night.”

  “So you haven’t been impatiently waiting to purchase a book.”

  He gave her a lazy smile. “I’ve been impatiently waiting to make you an offer for all the books.”

  “You want all the books?”

  “As well as the building.”

  “You want to own Paradise Books.”

  “I do.”

  If there was a category in one’s yearbook for Least Likely to Own a Used Bookstore, this man would win it. “You love books?” she said in disbelief.

  “That’s probably an exaggeration. Books are fine, but I don’t take them to bed with me.”

  She didn’t know how it happened, but she heard him say, “take them to bed” and then mentally added the word, “naked,” and then blushed, distracted, because Rachel didn’t meet men and picture them naked, or in bed. But Atticus Bowen wasn’t like any man she’d ever met.

  “My mother always read in bed,” he added helpfully. “Every night. She’s the reader in the family.”

  Rachel really wished he’d stop mentioning beds. “And she wants the bookstore?”

  “No.”

  Her confusion deepened. “If you don’t love books, why this bookstore?”

  “It’s special,” he said with a faint shrug.

  She stared at him, fascinated. Everything about him exuded confidence, but it was that slight, mocking lift of his lips that held her attention. His mouth was sexy and confident. Dangerous. She’d heard men like this existed but had never met one in real life.

  Rachel’s real life was dominated by a calculator and spreadsheets. The people in her world were also good with numbers, and like her, they tended to be quiet, serious, average.

  Atticus wasn’t average.

  For the first time in a long time, her life wasn’t organized and predictable. She had no idea what would happen next.

  “Does Lesley know you want to buy the bookstore?” she asked.

  “She does.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “That I should talk to you, as it’s now yours.”

  Interesting, as well as convenient. Rachel’s fingers curled into her palms, not sure she liked that everyone knew more about what was happening than her. Clearly, she needed to be looped in, fast. “How do you know her?”

  “Friends of mine are friends with her.”

  “So no relation.”

  “None.”

  “And you’ve come all this way to meet me.”

  “I have.”

  “You must want this store badly.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged in a faintly rueful smile. “I do.”

  “This is an interesting development.”

  “So you’re open to discussing the store with me?”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Unless you’re making a terrible offer, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I would never make you a terrible offer. That would disrespect your intelligence, and nothing good would come after that.”

  “True,” she agreed.

  Chapter Two

  She wasn’t what he’d expected.

  Based on Lesley’s brief description, Atticus imagined someone of medium height and build, someone in a beige suit and sensible heels. Lesley’s successful goddaughter would wear inoffensive pearls and her hair would be one of those bobs which conveyed nothing and yet everything.

  But Lesley’s goddaughter had thick, dark blonde hair gathered in a long ponytail, and she wore snug jeans, silver hoop earrings and a navy sweater with narrow white stripes. She looked fresh and young and nothing like an accountant. His gaze dropped to her feet. Vans. In winter.

  Why was he surprised, though? She lived in Orange County, home of world-famous beaches and Disneyland. Of course she’d dress like a California girl. She was a California girl. And yet, when she opened her mouth she was clearly no fool.

  “I don’t know what your day looks like,” he said, “but if you have some time, I’d like to sit down with you and discuss this properly. I’ve pulled some comps, put together some numbers, which should give you some context for the offer.”

  Her upper lip was generous, and slightly bow shaped, and it curved, matching the arch of her dark brown eyebrows. “Context is always useful.” And then her blue-green eyes seemed to gleam. “I look forward to seeing your numbers.”

  He wasn’t sure why he felt a whisper prickle of unease at the way she said “numbers.” This was his game. He was the king of numbers. “My schedule
is quite flexible. I’m meeting friends for dinner, but other than that, I have nothing else planned for today. Let me know what you prefer.”

  “Why don’t we meet before your dinner and you can show me what you have?”

  His eyes narrowed. That wasn’t a double entendre, was it? But when he looked down into her face, her expression was perfectly innocent. Or perhaps it was just the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that made her look innocent?

  He wrestled the suspicion, suppressing the uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensation in his gut that she just might have seized the upper hand. “I’m staying at the Graff. We could meet there, or at the Depot.”

  “The Graff is great. I read they have a nice pub. I could meet you at five thirty.”

  “My dinner is at six as my friends have young children that go to bed early. Could you do five?”

  “I could.”

  “See you then.”

  *

  Rachel’s pulse thudded as she watched Atticus walk out of the bookstore.

  Wow.

  That was… he was… just wow.

  And it wasn’t just his whole beautiful face-body-charisma thing that intrigued her, but his interest in the store. What did he want with a bookstore? Rachel had run some numbers before she’d booked her flight, and she’d looked up real estate in the valley, as well as in neighboring Bozeman. There was very little commercial space available in Marietta, and land in Paradise Valley was at a premium. The area seemed to be thriving, and popular with the affluent who wanted to own a piece of the West. Was Atticus one of those hungry for his piece of the West?

  She turned from the door, her gaze sweeping the tall bookshelves, and then the handsome stairs at the back, the stairs leading to the equally crammed second floor. Paradise Books had been named after Montana’s famed Paradise Valley, and it gave Rachel pause that Lesley had options, and she could have sold the store to Atticus, but instead she’d gifted it to Rachel. Lesley wanted her to have the store. But why? Why did it mean so much to her, and even more importantly, could anyone—never mind Rachel—make it profitable?