West Wind (22 page)

Mrs. Duval also adored Robert. A stylish
gallant, he often escorted her to the symphony and the occasional
art gallery opening.

Robert enjoyed discussing books and films
with her and appreciated feminine company without the complications
younger women entailed. "You have no idea how intelligent that
woman is," he once told Erica. "She's read every book she's ever
sold. She's a walking encyclopedia."

"She's had time," Erica responded. "She's
devoted her life to this shop. I'm just glad she agreed to stay and
that retiring to Florida doesn't interest her yet."

At a quarter 'til nine, Mrs. Duval inserted
her shop key into the brand new front door. Made of heavy oak with
twelve beveled glass panes, the door and the hardware were antique
reproductions. As the door swung open, it struck an old-fashioned
bell. Erica raised her head at the sound. She spent a lot of time
picking out the right bell. It had to be musical and faint; not the
kind that disturbed people browsing or reading, but would catch the
attention of the person at the counter.

Her eyes lit up as the elfin, silver-haired
woman gently shut the door and flipped the "Closed" sign.

East of Eaton opened for the day.

"I'm glad you're here," Erica said. "I have
to run to the convenience store. We're out of sugar and creamer.
I'm sorry; I was too distracted this morning to pick it up on my
way."

Mrs. Duval's face was serene, nearly unlined
and belying her age. At sixty, she could have passed for fifty any
day. "You go along, dear. I know you can't drink your coffee
without it. Don't worry. I'll be fine. The contractors know what to
do and until the shop is finished, I'm just here to dust, pack and
sort." She wryly added, "Then dust some more and unpack."

"I hear you," Erica said, pulling her purse
from underneath the sales counter. "I'll only be a minute."

She walked out the door, head bent as she
fished in her purse for her wallet, and collided with a man on the
sidewalk. The impact knocked her to the ground. She sat there,
stunned. Her open purse spilled its contents onto the walk. The man
staggered several steps before stopping against a large flowerpot,
part of the city's beautification project.

"Excuse me," he said, gathering his wits
first. "Are you alright?" He knelt by Erica and offered his hand.
"Can you stand up?"

Looking into his eyes, she wasn't sure if she
was dizzy because of the fall or because she literally bumped into
the most handsome man she had ever seen. Well, not as handsome as
Robert, but …. She blinked and struggled to her feet.

Brushing off the back of her pants and her
elbows, she apologized. "I'm sorry. I was trying to hurry and I
didn't see you."

She squatted to pick up her purse, shoving
her wallet, keys, cell phone and ink pens into the cavity. Her lip
moisturizer had rolled away and she stretched to retrieve it. Their
hands met, his closing around the tube first.

"Here; let me help you," he said putting a
hand under her elbow and gently lifting her.

Erica found herself staring into concerned
blue eyes, unable to speak. His eyes were deep set and crowned with
thick, dark eyebrows.
How unfair
, she thought, noticing his
long, lush lashes. Dark brown hair curled against his collar,
sweeping his cheek as he bent over. He hadn't shaved for a couple
days and on him, scruffy was definitely sexy. His mouth was wide,
his lips thin, his nose straight and narrow. Taken separately, his
handsome features seemed delicate, but combined for a dreamy,
poetic look.

"Wow," she said, dazed.

"What?" he asked.

Erica blinked. Had she spoken aloud? "I think
you should sit down for a minute."

He took her hand and led her to a nearby park
bench, another aspect of the city's beautification plan. When she
sat, he crouched in front of her and examined her eyes, first one
and then the other. "Your pupils seem okay. I don't think you have
a concussion. How many fingers do you see?"

He waved his hands in front of her face. She
blinked and tried to focus. "Seven? No, eight. You know, most
people generally hold up two."

"I think you're fine," he said, laughing.

He sat on the bench next to her and gestured
towards the bookstore. "What's going on? Is this place
closing?"

Erica felt herself flush as his jean-clad leg
brushed against hers. "No. We're renovating. We'll be open to the
public in another week."

"What happened to the old couple who used to
run it?"

"They retired to Florida. I bought the
building and I'm expanding."

He whistled. "You mean this entire building
will be a bookstore?"

"Well, almost. The florist is staying and so
is the goldsmith at the end of the block. I'm taking out a few
walls so there will be more space between the stacks and room for
browsing. I want shoppers to stay for a long time. I'm also adding
a coffee shop and on weekends we'll have live music."

Her face glowed as she told him her plans and
he found himself studying her as she spoke. Erica blushed at his
scrutiny.

"Sounds great. But what about my book fix? I
need something now."

She bit her lip. "It's a bit of a mess in
there right now. We've been moving all of the books from one side
of the shop to the other so the contractors can work faster. What
are you looking for?"

"I had my eye on a book in the history
section."

"Oh well, that side hasn't been touched yet.
I guess I can let you in, if you promise to be careful and stay
away from falling hammers."

"Falling women are my specialty."

She blushed again and stood up quickly.
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she walked over to the shop
and opened the door. The bell rang softly. "Enter," she said, her
back against the door.

In three long strides, he was next to her,
his arm snaking behind her head to hold the door. Eye level with
his collar, she was fascinated by the dark curls at his throat. She
breathed in his aftershave and her eyes closed. It had a dizzying
effect and she began to sway.

"Hey, hey. I thought you were okay. Maybe you
have a concussion?"

Her eyes snapped opened and she rubbed her
face with her hand. "I'm fine. I guess I just stood up quickly.
Head rush," she explained. She stepped through the door and flung
her purse on the counter.

Mrs. Duval stopped packing a box and made her
way towards the front of the shop after hearing the bell ring.
"That was quick." She glanced at the man behind her employer. "Good
morning, Clay. We're not really open to the public yet."

"I know, June. But I ran into …," smiling, he
turned to Erica, his hand outstretched. "I'm sorry. I don't know
your name."

She slid her hand into his and he gave it a
light squeeze. She froze. His smile faltered and he lifted an
eyebrow quizzically.

"Erica," June supplied. "Clayton Knight, this
is Erica Moore. She's the new owner of East of Eaton. She is quite
capable of speech, though apparently not at the moment."

He released her hand slowly and his lips
turned upward, this time lighting his eyes. "Have we met?"

Erica recovered her wits. "Yes. Five minutes
ago outside. I'm the person who ran into you."

He laughed easily. "No. I mean before. Your
name sounds familiar."

"No. I would have remembered you."

Clay and Erica's eyes locked for several
seconds until he broke the connection. He studied the scaffolds,
the compressors, the curtains of plastic sheeting. "East of Eaton?
That's a terrific name. Where are your workers?"

"They'll be here later this morning. Mrs.
Duval and I are shuffling books around today, making sure they
aren't damaged during the construction phase. The history section
is right over there. There are a lot of boxes in the aisle, but you
can move anything that's in your way."

"Thanks. I will."

Erica watched the tall, slender man saunter
to the far end of the shop, then she turned to Mrs. Duval. "You
know him!"

It was not a question. Mrs. Duval was mildly
amused. "Of course I do. I've worked here nearly all of my life.
Clay is one of our best customers. Not only does he shop here
regularly, but he sends his students our way also."

"Students?"

"Clay is a history professor at Marshall
College. He's also one of our local authors."

Erica found herself peeking at him as he
shoved cartons of books out of his way and rested a hand on the top
of the bookshelf. A couple of the top buttons of his white shirt
were undone. His jeans were faded and snug. He also wore a jacket,
a comfortable, black blazer that gave him some semblance of
formality. A casual chic style. She gave him four stars on the hunk
meter.
Hell, I'll give him five
, she thought.

He glanced at the women and caught both of
them staring at him. He winked. "Thanks. Found it," he called, a
book in his hand. He opened it and flipped through the pages.

Erica turned to Mrs. Duval and stammered,
"Oh, my."

"Yes; he is a sweetie, isn't he?"

"Is he married?" Erica's eyes followed his
every gesture.

"No. I don't think so. I really only know the
basics. He's not much of a talker. Guess he does enough of that
with his job. Do you like him?"

"I don't know him but, wow, who wouldn't like
him?" Mrs. Duval changed the subject. "Where's the cream? You
didn't go to the store?"

"No. It can wait."

"Your coffee can wait? This is a first."

Erica dragged her eyes from the lone
customer. "You're right. I'm acting like a fool. Guess I'll try
this again," she said, picking up her purse and stepping from
behind the counter.

"Bye," she said, peeking over her shoulder.
She caught a smile and a wave from the new customer. Erica ducked
her head and walked out the door. She made a mental note to
double-check that the history section of East of Eaton was well
stocked.

It's just good business
, she told
herself.

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