The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(21)

Alice held his gaze, willing him to move on. Her mind flashed to the letter, but that lawyer had lived in Houston. This man was likely a customer, but she didn’t care if he was looking to buy half her inventory, she wanted him to keep walking. He’d caught her preening at the mirror and she didn’t think her ego could hold up under a whole conversation.

As if he knew what she was thinking, his mouth tugged up in a smile. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the dim interior as the tiny brass bell announced his arrival a few minutes too late. He walked confidently, as if he’d been born into privilege.

When customers came in, Alice usually hopped out of her chair and came to see if they needed any particular help. But this time she felt rooted to the seat, like a toad caught crossing the highway, frozen in the high beams of an old pick-up truck. She watched him saunter in, gaze locked on hers, until he stood directly in front of her. The corners of his eyes crinkled and Alice edged his age up a little further, closer to thirty than twenty.

He took in the snoozing Van Winkle, the piles of papers, her coffee mug steaming gently. He turned, slowly scanning the room. “A mirror,” he said. His voice was deep and his accent was local, but muted, as if he hadn’t been home in a long time.

“Excuse me?”

“I assumed you were having a conversation with someone you didn’t care for, but you were simply menacing your own reflection.”

Several responses flew through her mind but she didn’t want to speak any of them aloud. She was a modern woman who treated herself kindly, including daily pep talks on body image and being good enough for any man who had the brains to look past bra size and her slight tendency to gain weight in the winter. If anyone had asked, she would have declared herself more confident and secure than the general female population.

“I looked pale,” she muttered.

A dark brow arched upward. “Feeling okay?”

“Perfectly fine, thanks.” Aside from an ebbing tide of residual embarrassment. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for old poetry. Specifically Alexander Pope and Robert Browning,” he said.

He was fit but bulkier than a runner. She would have said businessman from the understated watch with the leather band, but his shoes were battered black Converse. He was looking at her, a smile tugging at his lips and she realized she’d been giving him the whole body scan.

She pushed back from her desk. “Our poetry section is small, but I have quite a few first editions.”

“It doesn’t matter which editions. Anything will be fine.” He stepped aside to let her pass and she smelled something really good, a cross between a man and…old books. She led the way toward the front of the store and into the poetry section, but halfway down the narrow aisle she turned to face him.

“Are you a collector?” No, she already that knew that wasn’t right. He would have specified an edition or a publisher.

“Not exactly.” He smiled, but there was a tightness to his mouth. He glanced over her head. “Are they at the end? I can find them. No need to trouble yourself.”

“Are you a bookseller?” She’d stepped forward without thinking. The sunlight was filtering through the range, hitting him in the chest, illuminating his neck and stubbled chin, putting his eyes into shadow. Something was wrong with this man who didn’t care which editions he wanted but smelled like he’d rolled in a pile of old manuscripts.

“Kinda sorta,” he said. He shrugged, as if pretending to be mysterious and a little bit flirtatious. but as he moved, the sun flashed across his face and Alice caught the hint of panic in his eyes. He didn’t want to tell her what he was doing.

“You’re not… You’re not one of those people, are you? The ones who rip out pages from perfectly good books to make horrible art that ignorant folk hang on their walls so they can feel literary and bookish?” She dropped her hand to the shelf, steadying herself against the thought. She stepped forward, her nose almost touching his chest, and inhaled deeply. He held his hands up in surprise and she caught his wrist, pulling his palm towards her. He smelled wonderful, because on his skin was the unmistakable scent of dusty books.

She was filled with outrage. “You are. I can smell them on you. Murderer!”

He laughed--a deep, warm sound. “I assure you. I am no book murderer.”

“Then tell me what you’re going to do with them,” Alice said, dropping his hand.

His gaze went over her head toward the leather bound books at the end of the row, like a hungry man who could smell gumbo simmering on the stove. He didn’t answer.

“You can’t have them.” She crossed her arms. Everything about him spoke of privilege and wealth. He probably got his way in every bookstore he wandered into, especially with that laugh. Her bookstore was operating in the red but she’d rather die than let a book meet its end that way.

“But you run a bookstore. Are you telling me that you won’t sell me any books?” His voice had dropped an octave and he spoke very deliberately.

“That’s what I’m saying. They tell me you can find anything you need on the Internet so―”

“They tell you that, do they?” His lips turned up, but there was steel in his smile.

Alice ignored him. “I’m only prolonging the process a tiny bit but,” she tossed her hair back and straightened her shoulders, “I’ll be darned if I’m going to hand over a rare book to a… a book murderer.”