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?