I fell far behind in everything but reading. I would rather read than do anything. It’s my escape. It took me away from the pressure of taking care of my mother and being perfect for my father where my sisters had failed him.
“Isabella,” my father calls from his office.
I discard the newspaper and walk to the back of the store. “Yes, Papi.”
“I need to leave early today. I have to go by the bank before closing.” He takes off his glasses, cleaning them on the hem of his button down shirt. A coffee stain is dribbled down the front. He hasn’t been feeling well. I’m afraid he is over doing it. He stays stressed over my sister and money. “You shouldn’t have many customers. I’ll need you to lock up. “
“Go, I’ll be fine,” I assure him. I’ve taken care of the store plenty of times on my own since I was fifteen. When Papi would take Mama to the doctor I would stay behind and keep the store open. Papi hasn’t been the same since she died. None of us have.
I just wish I could see Papi smile again. He needs a woman to look after him other than me.
Although, I believe Papi has a thing for Lana Crawford, the loan officer at the bank. He goes to the bank often enough to see her. She seems like a sweet lady. She comes in from time to time to buy a romance novel. It would be nice to see them date. My father hasn’t dated since mom passed away over three years ago. He says that Mama was his one and once you have been with your one, nothing or no one can ever compare. I’m not sure if I believe there is only one person out there that I am meant to share my life with, but I have always felt a piece of me has been missing. Maybe I just haven’t met my one.
“I’ll swing back by and drive you home afterward.” He smiles warmly, but his skin seems pale for his naturally tan appearance.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine Mi hija.” He brushes my concern away and gathers the papers strewn across his desk into a neat pile, tucking them under his arm.
Once he has left, I make my way back to the front, on the odd chance that someone will actually come in and buy something. I grab a favorite book of mine and collapse on the loveseat, in the corner by the front window. My mother wanted customers to be comfortable and have a quiet place to read or talk about their favorite books.
Three cozy couches are placed in various parts of the room. My favorite being the one next to the window. When I’m not reading I enjoy people watching. I watch, as everyone’s lives seem to be moving on, while mine continues to stand still. Not that I mind working at the bookstore, but I don’t have many friends outside of my family. My daily routine consists of home and the bookstore. At least I get to read just about anything I want for free, basically.
I glance around the store my mother created missing the way she would smile at me from behind the counter, when she was well enough to work. The business did so much better when she was alive. She was the
heart of the store. She attracted most of the customers with her wit and charm. But most of all her beauty. I have never seen a woman as beautiful as her, though many say I look like her, but even prettier. I think they are all nuts. My mother was graceful and stunning. I am a klutz and homely in comparison. I have no style or grace.
At least that is what my sisters tell me. I don’t care much about appearances though. I would much rather have my mind stimulated with the beauty of words rather than the vanity of society. If I ever find a man who can penetrate my mind, I’ll be smitten. For now, I will have to settle for my book boyfriends. They always know what to do or say.
If only I could turn things around as easily as it happens in the books I find my escape in.
Looking around the store there isn’t much design wise that I can change to draw people in.
The shelving and displays take up most of the room. A small counter takes up a short space holding the cash register, bookmarks, keychains, and small baubles for sale. Not that we sell much of anything these days. Most people have switched to e-readers. I prefer paperbacks myself, but I’m not a paying customer.
I’m on my third re-read of the Outlander series. Jamie is to die for. He is the ultimate book husband. I lose track of time as I escape my sad reality with the Fraser’s in Scotland. I am so absorbed in my reading I don’t even hear the door chime. I only realize someone else is in the store when my novel is plucked from my grasp.
In shock at my rude interruption, my eyes travel up the length of the intruder’s body. Starting at the feet, my eyes meet with a pair of black riding boots, my pulse quickens as I come to his worn, ripped, faded, denim jeans. Tattooed knuckles grip my book. One finger sticks out with the skull ring that adorns it. A leather vest covers the man’s chest. The name TRIS displayed in bold letters on one of the many patches exhibited on his biker cut, identifies him as Tristian Vandacamp. Tattoos snake up his neck and cover most of his face. Giving him the appearance of a skeleton. His appearance is alarming and intriguing. My hand, out of instinct, reaches up to touch his bone colored flesh.
He reminds me of my favorite character from my youth, Jack The Pumpkin King. I smile briefly, I haven’t read the book or watched the movie in years. My mother used to read the book to me every night or so she said, when I try to remember the years before her illness took over, it all fuzzes into a blur. I guess it hurts too much to remember her the way she was before—beautiful, young, and healthy.
Before my trembling fingers reach his face, he grabs my wrist, stopping me forcefully. My book is lying on the ground at his feet now. What kind of jerk mistreats a book like this anyway? Tristian Vandacamp, that’s who. I shouldn’t be surprised that this tough as nails biker has no manners or respect for literature.
Jerking my hand back from his tight hold, I clear my throat and raise from my spot on the loveseat. I retrieve my discarded book and place it back on the shelf I borrowed it from, trying to reign in my annoyance at his disruption.
I can feel his dark eyes on me, assessing me. “Can I help you Mr. Vandacamp?” My voice comes out hoarse and shaky. I look up meeting his gaze and I have to avert my eyes back to his hands. I take a calming breath studying the bones tattooed over his digits, traveling up his arm. They look so real. He’s like a living dead man.
His hand reaches up, his strong, very alive fingers pinch my chin and tilt my face up, forcing me to stare into the dark abyss held in his eyes. “My father was Mr. I’m Tris.” Dropping his hand, he holds an ink covered hand out for me to shake. I can still feel his touch on my face as if he never let me go.
Letting out a nervous breath I smile feeling giddy and silly. “Isabella,” I return unsure of whether I want to risk touching him. I am afraid the desire to trace my fingers over his tattoos will be too tempting. I can’t help it as my eyes bat, fluttering my lashes. That’s something my sisters would do, not me. This man has a weird effect on me.
Giving up on the handshake he drops his hand to his side, now clenching his fist. “Where’s your old man?” His dark eyes narrow on me, giving me goosebumps.
The way he looks at me makes me feel naked and afraid. I feel as though the depths of his darkness is swallowing me whole.
I clear the lump in my throat. “He will be in tomorrow. He stepped out early.” I look at the clock on the wall. I was reading a lot longer than I realized. I should have closed the store over an hour ago. Papi should be back to drive me home by now.
“You seem nervous,” he presses taking a calculated step toward me, boxing me in-between what I imagine to be his hard body and the counter. “Are you afraid Isabella?”