CH 7 - Grace
1273 Words
GRACE POV
I was not thinking about him.
Nope.
Not one bit.
I was thinking about… receipts. And inventory. And the absurd number of book orders that hadn’t arrived yet because the universe had clearly decided I didn’t deserve peace.
(At least, that’s what I told myself.)
But mostly, definitely, absolutely not about that mountain of a man who’d walked into my store half an hour ago and turned my brain into scrambled eggs.
A redhead mountain of a man.
A tattooed mountain of a man.
A hot mountain of a man.
Goddammit.
The stack of order forms slipped through my fingers, scattering across the counter like oversized confetti. Paper everywhere. I groaned, pressing my palms into my eyes. “Get it together, Grace,” I muttered under my breath. “He’s just a man. A very large, very distracting man with shoulders that could double as a bookshelf, but still—a man.”
I crouched to gather the papers, muttering curses at the universe and at the printer that had decided to stop working this afternoon. Somewhere between order #67 and my rising irritation, my mind betrayed me again.
That stupid deep voice, rich and smooth with a hint of something I couldn’t quite place—probably Trouble.
That stupid grin, too wide, too charming, too dangerous for my ovaries.
And those hands—
No. Nope. Not going there.
I slammed the papers back on the counter and forced myself to focus on the screen. The order system blinked accusingly, as if mocking me. I’d been in the middle of finalizing a shipment when my brain decided to wander off into Redhead Land.
“Okay,” I said aloud, typing furiously. “You were ordering ‘A Guide to Secret Scotland.’ Simple. Easy. No distractions.”
Except apparently my fingers didn’t get the memo, because when the confirmation email popped up, the title on the screen made my blood run cold.
> *‘My Pumpkin Spice latte in a Lumberjack’s suit’*
I stared at it.
Then blinked.
Then stared again.
“Oh, for the love of God,” I hissed.
My subconscious was officially on strike. Out of all the books in the catalog, that’s what my fingers decided to click on? A pumpkin spice romance?
“Very subtle, brain,” I muttered. “Real inconspicuous.”
It wasn’t even like I liked pumpkin spice. I liked control. And black coffee. I liked things where they belonged, in perfect alphabetical and emotional order. Not… men who looked like they could break me in half and still have energy left to build me a new bookshelf after.
I leaned back on the counter and groaned, rubbing my temples. One day. One day since I was back in my old town and I had somehow already crashed against the town’s jackass and that mountain of a man. I knew I could probably find another way to call him, just couldn’t though. He had walked into the shop asking for a ton of Nessie keychains for god’s sake, and I was still acting like a hormonal teenager.
He hadn’t even said his name and offered me a cup of tea… Who is so blunt and awkward at the same time?!
Embarrassing enough, I had a few ideas of what to call him. None of them appropriate for daylight hours.
“Stop it, Grace.” I slapped my own cheek lightly. “Focus. You have invoices to send, not intrusive thoughts about redheads.”
The bell above the door jingled, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
The sound sliced through the silence like a gunshot, sending a jolt straight to my spine.
No.
No, no, no.
It couldn’t be—
“My lady.”
Oh, for crying out loud.
That voice.
That smooth, sinful, infuriating voice—like dark honey poured over trouble.
I turned slowly, bracing myself for disappointment—or worse, confirmation.
And there he was.
The mountain.
All six-foot-something of solid muscle and smug confidence, framed by the doorway like he’d just stepped out of a storm and brought it in with him. The cold wind pushed at his back, carrying the scent of rain and something else—something warm and maddeningly familiar.
Of course it was him.
Because the universe loved irony.
He was holding two steaming takeaway cups, his big hands dwarfing them, and that grin—oh, that damn grin—was the kind that could start wars or peace treaties, depending on who it was aimed at.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. Then my survival instincts kicked back in. Sarcasm was oxygen.
“Charming,” I said dryly, crossing my arms. “And very sure of yourself.”
He tilted his head, that glint of mischief still dancing behind his eyes. “Just figured I’d bring you tea, since you didn’t technically say we couldn’t drink one together.”
Of course he’d remember that.
Men like him always did—the tiny details you hoped they’d forget.
I scoffed, keeping my chin high. “Well, technically, we won’t. I don’t drink tea. Especially not peppermint.”
That landed like a punch.
His grin faltered, the warmth in his eyes dimming just a little. His shoulders sagged—not dramatically, just enough to make something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
Why did that feel like guilt?
Why did I care if I’d just offended him?
He looked down at the cups, the corner of his mouth tightening in a way that made him seem suddenly human—less smug, more… uncertain.
My stomach betrayed me with a quiet growl. Fantastic timing.
And that’s when I noticed it—the small paper bag in his other hand, slightly crumpled from the drizzle outside.
“What’s in there?” I asked, nodding toward it.
He blinked, like he’d forgotten it was there. “Lemon cake,” he said quietly. “Do you… like it?”
His tone was almost shy, which didn’t match the confident smirk from earlier at all.
“It’s not my favorite,” I admitted, “but I like it.”
Which wasn’t even true. I just happened to be starving, and saying yes seemed easier than watching that disappointed look deepen on his stupidly perfect face.
Besides, this had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Nope.
This was pure survival.
Low blood sugar. Biology. Basic human need.
I wasn’t accepting cake from a gorgeous, annoyingly broad-shouldered stranger because I liked the way his voice dipped when he said do you like it?
Please.
I was simply… preventing fainting.
That was my story, and I was sticking to it.
He stepped closer to the counter, the space between us shrinking just enough for me to catch that scent again — coffee and cinnamon with a hint of brown sugar. Warm. Comforting. Entirely unfair.
He unwrapped the slice from a napkin and held it out to me. “Then it’s yours,” he said softly. “In exchange for your name.”
I hesitated, eyes flicking from the cake to his hand, then up to his face. His gaze didn’t waver — steady, patient, and somehow both teasing and sincere.
“Grace,” I said finally, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
His lips curved again, just slightly. “Nice to meet you, Grace. I’m Connor, and—”
The bell over the door chimed.
Connor stopped mid-sentence as Timothy walked in, holding a cup of coffee and grinning like he’d just stepped into the best timing of his life.
Of course.
Because the universe wasn’t done torturing me yet.
- Writer
