“I can’t possibly take so many books for free,” Rasul said as the bookseller pressed the bag into his arms. The thought of having more money for food was tempting, but this was a bridge too far. These were the man’s livelihood. “I’m more than happy to pay.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept your money today, but we welcome you back when you next need something to read, at which time I can assure you no one will harass you while you shop.” His expression suggested he might stand guard on the ramp with a shotgun, but then it softened slightly. “Both your novels are in my top-ten favorite titles. Please consider the books a gift from a well-contented reader as well.”
This guy was going to give Rasul a huge head. Damn shame about the sweater. “Can I sign your copies, then?” It didn’t feel presumptive to assume the man had his books in the apartment.
For the first time, the man’s demeanor cracked, and the fissure of delight and eagerness on Rogers’s face made something surprising curl in Rasul’s belly. The spark was gone as soon as it came, however. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”
“It’d be my pleasure, seriously. You have no idea how much you saved me there. My agent is not in the mood to see me splashed all over social media with a bunch of teenage girls. Please, let me sign them.”
The longing crept back in, and Rogers sighed. “If you insist.” His cheeks flushed adorably as he gestured to the living room. “They’re… in here.”
Rasul’s books had, in fact, pride of place on the top of a small bookshelf, both of them nestled next to works by Sir Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Sarah Waters, and—
Rasul grinned as he pulled out the volume. “I Capture the Castle.” He whistled and handled it more carefully as he felt the plastic cover and saw the faded landscape splashed across the spine and front. “First edition. Impressive.”
Rogers blushed like a proud parent. “A gift from my mom and dad when I graduated high school. They wrote supportive notes in the front panels, which scandalized me at the time, but I’m incredibly grateful for them now.” Before Rasul could ask what he meant by that, he took the book from Rasul, slid it reverently back into place, and withdrew The Sword Dancer’s Daughter and Carnivale, placing them in Rasul’s hands.
Rasul was patting his pockets when Rogers gave him a beautiful fountain pen he immediately wished he could ask for instead of the books. He didn’t, though, only cracked open The Sword Dancer’s Daughter and went into author mode. “How shall I make it out?”
“To Jacob, please.”
Rasul dutifully inscribed each copy: To Jacob, who has the loveliest bookstore I’ve ever seen, Rasul Youssef in Dancer; and in Carnivale he wrote To Jacob, my hero, Love, Rasul. He worried that might be a bit too familiar, but he did feel significant affection toward the man right now, for the rescue, the books, and the tea.
Jacob—though honestly, Rasul was going to think of him as Mr. Rogers forever—took a moment to blow across each inked page before whipping out an actual blotter to make absolutely sure nothing would bleed. With an air of satisfaction, he placed the books back on the shelf. “Thank you very much, Mr. Youssef. I’ll treasure them even more now.”
“Call me Rasul, please.” He winced inwardly at how flirty that came out. What in the world was wrong with him?
A strange expression passed over Jacob’s face before he replied. “Thank you, but I couldn’t.” Rising, he smoothed the front of his trousers and adjusted his sweater. He looked about to say something, but then a knock came at the back door. “Ah, that will be Simon, here to take you home.”
A bright, cheerful man in scrubs stood on the other side of the door. Rasul shook his hand for the introduction, then stood patiently as Jacob gave a summary of the situation, distilling it to the essential elements. Visiting professor, needs to get back to his apartment, but some girls in the store behaved badly and may be looking to cause more trouble, so please get him home discreetly.
Simon’s polite expression morphed into cold outrage. “Are you kidding me? Why? Do you know who they are? Their parents?”
Jacob held up a hand. “I do, and I’ve contacted them. I don’t think any harm was meant. Mr. Youssef is… a bit infamous online.”
The careful way the bookseller phrased that, as if dancing around a highly sensitive topic, made Rasul more abashed than anything Elizabeth could have hurled at him.
Simon, however, brightened, understanding dawning. “Oh—oh. You’re that guy. The author! My husband bought your books because you were coming. He keeps nagging me to read them. Welcome to Copper Point.”
There were a few more pleasantries, and then Jacob gently ushered them out the door and onto the stairs leading to a small parking lot behind the building. With his hand on the rail, Rasul turned to Jacob, trying to work out how to thank him.
He was cuter than Rasul had initially given him credit for, but the sweater still bothered him. It was like he was hiding behind it, dressing like a grandfather so no one noticed him. Rasul wanted to know that story. He wanted to sit in that charming kitchen and listen to the careful man talk while they drank good tea and soaked in excellent atmosphere. Hell, he wanted to write in that kitchen.
Right now, though, all he could do was thank the man for all his help once again.
“It was my pleasure,” Jacob replied politely in that bookseller voice Rasul was starting to resent a little. “Please come by the shop anytime you like.”
With that, he shut the door, and there was nothing for Rasul to do but to follow Simon down the stairs and go back to his terrible apartment with no company except for his ancient phone.
Chapter Two
AS SOON as Jacob Moore heard the doors to Simon’s car close, he shut his eyes, slid down the back of the door, and curled into a ball on the floor of his apartment. After a few minutes he withdrew his phone and texted his friend Gus with trembling fingers.
anybody in shop still
The reply came back swiftly. No, and I was about to ask if you wanted me to close up. Everything ok up there?
lock door, make sure nobody in shop, then come up please
After sending the text, he put the phone facedown on the floor and resumed his fetal position, where he remained, deliberately not allowing his brain to function for more than the bare minimum of survival, until Gus crouched in front of him.
“Oh my God, hon! Are you okay?” Gus put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “What happened—”
With the touch, Jacob’s dam broke.
“Rasul Youssef, Gus. Rasul. Youssef. Was here. In my apartment. Tea! He had tea! His cup is still there! I can’t ever wash it!” He tipped his head against the door and stared at the ceiling, too lost to function. “He signed my books. My books. Called me his hero. But first I helped him pick out almost one hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of books and gave them away.”
“Why in the world did you give them—”
“Because he’s my favorite author ever and he stood there in my shop and I was trying to be all smooth and casual but eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s honestly a miracle I didn’t hand over the deed to the building.”