His wrist itches.
He’d been in Amorea only a week or so. He had the house. He had the store. He had the basic foundation for a life here. People were kind to him. They waved and smiled and oohed and aahed over his storefront. They asked him when he would open. They said they’d always wanted a bookstore in Amorea. And Bookworm? What a clever, charming name that was! He seemed like such a nice man, they said. Such a sweet man. They told him he’d fit in perfectly here, they had no doubt.
No one asked where he’d come from.
He didn’t know what to tell them if they did. The more the days passed, the more he felt like he hadn’t really been living before he arrived in Amorea. He hadn’t had a life. So of course he didn’t want to think about before. It was just that simple.
It was a Friday. He’d planned on opening the shop the next day for a sort of preview before the official opening the following week.
He’d spent the morning unpacking books and setting up shelves. He was sore, but it was a good soreness, derived from hard work.
He was hungry.
A group of ladies who’d brought him a casserole and a pie and muffins (“It’s the neighborly thing to do,” Mrs. Richardson said with a sniff) told him the diner couldn’t be beat. He noticed the little gleam in their eyes but said nothing of it, not necessarily wanting to know what sort of schemes were forming in their heads.
(Though, later, he would wonder just how they knew he would respond to Sean as he did. He’d only told them the barest of information about himself. But somehow, they knew. He should have been more frightened of his soon-to-be book club than he was.)
He walked down Main Street, the sky so blue above, the birds chirping. People said hi and hello and how do you do? as they passed him on the street. He nodded in return, feeling overwhelmed and peaceful all at the same time. He could breathe here. He could be happy here.
He paused outside the diner. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in one. Something tugged in his chest, some ache that seemed like a memory, but he couldn’t hold on to it long enough to remember what it was.
It didn’t matter in the long run.
He went in.
The bell jingled overhead.
People turned to look at him, curious at this stranger in their midst. They knew of him, but they didn’t know him. Not yet. They would, and soon, but he was still a curiosity. There were friendly smiles and small waves, and while Mike felt a bit awkward standing there, unsure of where to sit, he did his best to smile back.
The smile froze when a voice said, “I think I know what you’re looking for.”
He turned his head.
Standing next to him was a slight man. A young man. A man with messy dark hair. His eyebrows were slightly bushy and his nose slightly crooked. His ears stuck out just a little bit from the sides of his head, and Mike wondered if he even had to shave yet. Mike wondered how the young man’s shoulders could be so broad while he was so skinny. Mike wondered why his heart was thumping in his chest.
He was staring and he knew it. But he couldn’t make himself stop.
The man wasn’t handsome, not by traditional standards. He was lanky, and maybe his lips were a little thin, his fingers boney, like spindly little spider legs. He looked like he still had some growing into himself to do, but there was just something about him that captivated Mike more than anyone he could ever remember meeting. The people in Amorea were the nicest people he’d ever met. They’d made him feel welcome. They’d never made him feel like this.
Mike, ever the wordsmith, said, “Hi.”
The man smiled wider. “Hi.”
“I’m Mike,” he said, never breaking his gaze from those bright green eyes.
“Mike,” the man said, cocking his head. “I’ve heard about you.”
“You have?”
“Hmm. Here and there.”
“And everywhere?”
“They talk. They always talk. And apparently you’re something to talk about.”
“Yeah?”
He wrinkled his nose a little bit and said, “Yeah. Now, like I said, I think I know what you’re looking for.”