Installment Six - After Hours

Neither of us mentioned the kids' corner anymore. Not since Lucy had claimed it as her own."

That didn’t mean Peter liked it.

It meant the arguing had stopped.

Lucy claimed the corner like it had always belonged to her. Crayons now lived in a jar instead of his bag. Someone—Bea from the café next door—had donated a beanbag chair. Another customer had brought a stack of age-appropriate picture books “just in case.”

And customers stayed.

They didn’t rush. They didn’t apologize for browsing. They lingered, chatted, bought more than one book, and came back the next week, bringing a friend.

Peter saw it. Nothing in that store escaped him. It was one of the things that both drove me crazy and made me appreciate him.

He just didn’t comment unless it involved numbers.

“You’re up twelve percent over last month,” he said one evening, tapping his laptop screen while Lucy colored beside him. “Foot traffic is up more than that.”

I pretended not to preen. “Almost like people enjoy not being treated like a commodity.”

“This isn’t a victory lap,” he said. “It’s a data point.”

“Let me have my data-point parade.”

Something almost warm crossed his face before he could stop it.

That night, after closing, I locked the door and turned the sign to CLOSED while Peter finished reconciling receipts. Lucy was upstairs watching something animated and loud enough to leak through the ceiling.

“You don’t have to stay late,” I said. “You already put in your hours.”

“I know,” he said. “I want to finish this.”

I leaned against the counter, watching him work. Sleeves rolled. Focused. The man did competence like it was a moral obligation.

A month ago, that would’ve irritated me.

Now it was… distracting. Especially when I looked at his forearms—always a weak spot for me.

“Question,” I said.

He didn’t look up. “That tone means I won’t like the answer.”

“I’m thinking about hosting a nighttime event.”

He froze.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze. “Define ‘nighttime.’”

“After closing.”

“No.”

“I didn’t finish.”

“No,” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”

“Peter.”

“Insurance—”

“—covers events.”

“Alcohol—”

“—would be limited.”

“Crowds—”

“—would be ticketed.”

He exhaled through his nose, clearly bracing himself. “What kind of event?”

“Something for our romance readers,” I said. “After dark. Wine. A theme. Something fun but contained.”

“That’s a lot of liability words in one sentence.”

“That’s because you hear them louder than the goodwill it will generate, not to mention potential profit.”

“The thing about goodwill and potential is how quickly all can go sideways,” he said. “This is about risk.”

“Everything worth doing has risk.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “You can live a perfectly fine life minimizing it.”

“And do you?” I asked, lightly.

He didn’t answer.

I pressed on. “The store needs more than foot traffic if it’s going to grow. It's at the point where we can maximize community buzz. Something people talk about. Something to bring people back on a regular basis.”

He glanced at Lucy. "And your plan accounts for—"

“She won’t be here,” I interje3cted before he finished. “I’d schedule it for a night you’re not on.”

He studied me for a moment. “You’ve already thought this through.”

“I run a bookstore,” I said. “Planning comes with the job.”

“And leaping too, I suppose,” he said, with a look that suggested this was exactly the problem.

“Calculated leaping.”

He exhaled, the sound half surrender, half resignation. “All right. Pitch me.”

I slid the flyer mockups across the counter.

“This isn’t a free-for-all,” I said. “It’s a book club.”

He looked down. “A book club?”

I braced myself for Peter’s Standard Operating Procedure. Why it wouldn’t work, delivered in bullet points.

“Monthly,” I continued. “One book. One discussion. Limited seats. Pre-registered.”

His shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. “That’s… contained.”

“Yes,” I said. “Structured. Predictable. Boring enough for you to breathe.”

He huffed. “I didn’t say boring.”

“You thought it.”

He studied the details, finger tracing the line that read Romance Book Club: Inaugural Meeting.

“If it works,” I added, carefully, “then we can talk about specialty nights.”

His head came up. “If.”

“Like Book Boyfriends After Dark,” I said. “Quarterly. Ticketed. Controlled chaos.”

He opened his mouth.

“And,” I cut in, “only if the book club proves people show up, behave, and leave happy.”

Silence.

Then: “What other ‘specialty nights’ do you imagine?”

I smiled. “Grumpy Heroes Night. Second-Chance Love. Single Parents Who Deserve Nice Things.”

His mouth twitched despite himself.

“No alcohol for the first few,” he said.

“Wine only.”

“Capacity limits.”

“Already planned.”

“Waivers.”

I groaned. “You love paperwork.”

“I love survivability.”

“Same goal,” I said. “Different coping mechanisms.”

He nodded once. “We start with the book club.”

I extended my hand. “Deal.”

He shook it.

The fact that he didn’t immediately let go felt like something I’d think about later.

***

I took Graham up on his marketing help—much to Peter's barely concealed displeasure. Graham polished the flyers I had started, dropping them off with a grin that lingered a little too long.

Peter noticed that too.

After taping one in the front window, I printed a few dozen more to hand out.

The following week, the store felt different.

Charged.

People asked about the event. Tickets sold out faster than I expected. The café next door offered to cross-promote.

Peter didn’t say anything. He just went quieter. I caught him glancing at me now and then, watchful, his binder never far from reach.

On the night of the event, I was still adjusting displays when Peter arrived.

Early. Of course.

He'd announced he would be present "purely for risk management purposes." 

The way he showed up early suggested otherwise.

He paused just inside the door, eyes tracking the changes. The rearranged furniture. The sign in the window. The faint smell of wine.

"You look… prepared," he said.

"High praise."

"You nervous?"

I shook my head. "Excited."

He exhaled. "Nervous I can work with. Excited means you've stopped listening to guardrails."

By the time everyone had arrived, the store had settled into a rhythm I hadn't dared hope for. This wasn't a lecture or a class. Wine glasses in hand, women drifted between the shelves, talking in the easy shorthand of people who had a common bond.

Peter stayed near the counter, pretending to review insurance documents while watching something else entirely come to life.

At one point, we found ourselves shoulder to shoulder near the back shelves.

“This is working,” he said, almost to himself.

I glanced at him. “You sound impressed.”

He paused. “I am.”

“Why.”

“Because it’s disciplined,” he said. “Not reckless.”

I smiled. “I resent that you ever thought it wouldn’t.”

He didn’t argue.

Later, when the crowd thinned, a woman lingered by the display table.

“This place,” she said, a little tipsy, a lot sincere. “It feels… safe.”

Peter heard that.

I watched it land.

After closing, we locked up together. The store hummed with leftover warmth.

“You did good,” he said.

“You helped.”

“I didn’t sabotage.”

“Progress.”

We stood closer than necessary. Close enough that I noticed things I'd been carefully not noticing.

The way his hand hovered near mine. The way my breath changed when he shifted closer.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

Neither of us moved.

Then his phone buzzed.

Reality reclaimed its territory.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Okay.”

He paused at the door. Looked back once.

He looked like a man who'd just talked himself out of something and wasn't sure it was the right call.

After he left, I leaned against the counter and laughed quietly at myself.

June had engineered the proximity. The chemistry was nobody's fault but ours.

Unplanned. Uninvited. And growing.

Up next: Attraction doesn’t announce itself. It sneaks in while you’re busy doing the work.