Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Don’t.”
With a tip of his dark head, Rett pulled the two books closer, flipped them over and scanned the ISBNs with a barcode reader. “Do you need a bag?”
Not unless you’re going to wear it to keep from asking so many damn questions. “No.”
“Can I tell you one more thing?”
Jesus. “Must you?”
Rett’s lips twitched. “I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t.”
He would be “remiss” in his duties.
Right.
I sighed, cocked my head and waited.
“Once you’re done with them, you can trade them back in.”
Now, that was interesting. That was why so many books on the shelves looked lightly read. The Next Page must be similar to one of those paperback exchange stores. While that meant the author was missing out on royalties, it also made physical copies of books more affordable to the public and encouraged more reading. Especially if there wasn’t a library nearby. “One for one?” slipped out before I could stop it.
Rett’s smothered smile grew. “Two for one.”
I frowned. While that was a decent deal, trading in used books didn’t make much money, if at all, versus selling them outright. Now, my curiosity was getting the best of me. “How does the store pay its bills?”
“The store doesn’t, but I do.”
Wait a minute… “You’re the owner?”
“I am.” Ah, there was the same smugness I saw in the parking lot of the Eagle’s Nest.
“Are you the only employee?”
“I am. Well, Timber and I.”
At hearing his name, the steady thump of the Shepherd’s tail hitting the floor could be heard from behind the counter.
How could the man afford to pay the bills, taxes, maybe a mortgage or lease on the building, along with all the rest of the expenses, when there was no way it got enough business to sustain itself? Maybe this Rett was independently wealthy and owning a bookstore had been a pipe dream.
Doesn’t matter, Chase. Mind your own damn business just like you want him to mind his, too.
Words to live by.
But, despite everything, I had something in common with the irritating man in front of me. Books were an important part of our lives.
Even so, that one commonality wasn’t enough to become friends. “What’s my total?”
“Since you’re a new customer and you’re buying two, I’ll give you a deal. Just give me thirty.”
I slid my wallet from my back pocket, cracked it open and pulled out two twenties. Grabbing the two books off the counter, I left the money in their place. “Keep the change.”
“For what? That seems like a pretty big tip for my stellar customer service.”
Christ, when the man smiled—even when it was a smart-ass smile—it drew me in. I shoved that discovery back out.
I was never getting involved with anyone again. “My breakfast.”
Rett shook his head. “That was my treat.”
“I don’t need you buying me breakfast.”
“Of course you don’t need it. I was trying to be friendly.”
“I don’t need you being friendly.”
“Fair enough. But since I was going to give you some friendly advice next, I’ll call it smart advice instead.”
I mentally groaned. He certainly liked to push it.
“Even though you said you were a hunter,” Rett lifted one skeptical eyebrow, “my advice is, if you don’t own one already, you might consider buying yourself a rifle or shotgun.”
I never owned a damn gun and getting one hadn’t been on my radar. “Why? Will I need to use it on you?”
“Only if you consider me as dangerous as the bears, bobcats and coyotes up around your cabin. If you aren’t aware of it, you’re in the Allegheny Mountains now. We’ve got all kinds of critters around here.”
Like nosy bookstore owners. But the only way Rett would be dangerous to me was if the man was gay. Since he was straight, I had no problem keeping him at arm’s length. Despite how much Rett was my type. If he was gay.
But he wasn’t.
Thank my lucky stars.
Plus, you don’t have a type, I reminded myself. Not any longer.
“Critters who would like to eat your face off,” Rett added.
Before I could respond, the cow bell over the door clanged, drawing our attention to a woman entering and carrying a couple of books.
With an excited, high-pitched bark, Timber scrambled out from behind the counter and the gray-haired woman, possibly in her late sixties or early seventies, pulled a dog biscuit from the pocket of her bright pink, ankle-length skirt.
“Here you go, Timber.” Directing a beaming smile at the dog while he practically inhaled the biscuit, she said, “Luckily, I remembered at the last second to bring along a treat. You never would’ve forgiven me if I hadn’t.” Once no evidence of the treat was left, she looked up and her gaze sliced between me and Rett, causing an extra crease to join the rest already on her forehead. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you gentlemen.”