“Um, I’m going to help this customer with his shopping,” I say, taking Jacob by the arm and ushering him swiftly away before Sam starts asking him questions. She’s one of those people who can talk forever—and we only have an hour before the store closes. Standing by the Poetry section, we huddle together over his iPhone as I read the list.
“Hmmm. Okay. Mom. Dad. Little brother. Grandma,” I mumble, making a mental checklist of Jacob’s family and what they might be like. “Very doable.”
He puts his phone in his back pocket, and for a second I think I see a flicker of something—surprise? apprehension?—flash over his face. But then he’s smiling at me before I can comment on it, and then I’m not sure it was even there at all. Boys are weird.
I escort him over to the cookbooks—probably one of the most popular sections in the store during the holidays. “Does your mom watch Face the Nation or Real Housewives?” I ask. “Or is she more of a podcast person?”
“Uh, Real Housewives, I think?” Jacob says, looking confused. He chews on his bottom lip, which is already chapped. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Entertainment preferences tell me a lot about a person,” I say. I pull a copy of Chrissy Teigen’s Cravings off the shelf and hand it to him.
“You didn’t even ask if my mom cooks, though,” he says, raising an eyebrow. His eyes are the steely blue of an Alaskan husky, and I find myself looking at them—or, rather, into them—for a second longer than I should.
Don’t get sucked in, I tell myself. I’m pretty sure that Jacob Marley is a bit of a player. He hangs with a loud, semi-obnoxious crowd, he always seems to have an answer for everything, and he went out with Jessica Dolecki, so he obviously has questionable judgment. Certainly not who I imagine kissing under the mistletoe.
I tear my gaze away from his Alaskan husky eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone loves looking at beautiful food. And this one actually has great recipes. There’s one for ramen salad that’ll blow your mind.”
“Wow. Okay,” he says agreeably. “That sounds amazing.”
I smile, imagining his mom opening it up on Christmas. You’re welcome, Jacob.
We move over to the Performing Arts section of the shop. There’s a round table stacked with books ranging from dance to theater to music. It’s what Victoria calls an impulse stop.
“My dad likes rock,” Jacob says, and I get the sense he hadn’t realized there were actually books about musicians. He points to a Pearl Jam trivia book. “This could be cool.”
I nod encouragingly. “I was going to suggest a biography—dads love them. Prince, Tom Petty, The Rock…”
Jacob picks up Acid for the Children by Flea. “My dad likes the Chili Peppers,” he muses, thumbing through the pages.
“Winner winner chicken dinner,” I say, then cover my mouth. My dad is the king of corny expressions, and sadly, I have picked up a few of them. But Jacob doesn’t seem to think it’s strange. He just laughs.
“You’re pretty good at this book stuff,” he says approvingly. “You know, it’s almost like you work here or something.” He is standing just close enough for me to smell him: a mix of Downy fabric softener and wet dog. It’s more appealing than you would think. But then I remind myself that holiday dreams are made of peppermint, evergreen, and cedar.
“Yeah, you know, I try,” I say modestly, but the truth is, I am pretty proud of my book-matching skills. I was even Employee of the Month back in July, and my shelftalkers—the little signs we’re encouraged to put under books we love with short write-ups of why we love them—are customer favorites.
“Now, my little bro, Preston, is kind of a tough one,” he says, stroking his chin. “He’s not really into reading. He likes to play lacrosse and video games.”
The not-reading thing is something I hear a lot from customers, especially parents, and about boys. “You just have to find the right book,” I tell him with conviction as I lead him to the Kids’ section at the back of the store. We browse through fantasy, sports fiction, and graphic novels, finally settling on A Wolf Called Wander, about a wolf cub that has to find a new home, and the Trials of Apollo series by Rick Riordan because Jacob remembered reading another series by the author when he was in middle school and liking it.
Music begins playing, and I recognize Kelsea Ballerini’s version of “My Favorite Things.” The floor is pretty crowded now, and there’s definitely a feeling of Christmas spirit in the air.
“So now all we have left is Grandma,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Cozy mystery? Sudoku puzzle book? Mindfulness mantras? Talk to me.”
He rocks lightly on his feet, considering the options. “Gram’s a pretty curious person,” he finally says. “She audits classes at her local community college just for fun, ballroom dances with her boyfriend, Rocco, and goes out for mimosas with her friends every Sunday.”
“My kind of lady,” I say with true admiration. After some back-and-forth, we settle on Mo Rocca’s Mobituaries, about lives well-lived. It’s popular with the over-forty crowd.
“She’ll love it,” Jacob says, reading the description on the inside flap. “Thanks, Bailey. You really helped me.”
“Sure thing,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward now that our reason for hanging out together is coming to a close. “Anytime.” I look toward the cash register. “If you, uh, want to go and pay for everything, I can wrap it when you’re done.”
A flush spreads over Jacob’s face. “Uh, yeah. About that. I, um, I kind of forgot my wallet.”
I stare at him. “Say what?”
He nods, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah. I realized it when I put my phone in my pocket.”
“And you…just decided to keep shopping?” I say, confused. “Were you going to pay with your phone?” My mind flashes to the guys he hangs out with at school. I could totally imagine them working with a personal shopper and then just walking out for the fun of it. Which apparently is what Jacob is planning on doing today.
“No,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t have it set up.”
“Oh. So…how were you going to pay?” I ask, leaving the question hanging in the air.
“I…yeah. I guess I didn’t think it through. You seemed so into helping me that I, uh, didn’t want to disappoint you.”
Disappoint me? Clearly he thinks I set a very low bar for excitement. And maybe I do, which makes me even more annoyed than I should be. I fold my arms across my chest. “That was thirty minutes of my life I can’t get back now. Thanks a lot.”