Across from this, there was a section of freestanding shelves that had its own sign over it that was an opened book, and the section itself looked like a library with places to sit and read.
There were racks of clothes that surrounded a setup of a bedroom area (but was really a bed and a bunch of stuff for sale), one side with a big picture of Amelia Earhart over what had to be the women’s section, the Dos Equis guy over the men’s on the other side.
The rest of the place was filled with more stuff for sale, from furniture, glassware and lamps to gifts, candles, jewelry, kitchen stuff, and more.
Some of it was new.
Most of it was used.
Apparently, there was a lot of shit that Archie liked.
The way it was laid out was unique, appealing, and comfortable.
This was a store you hung out at and not only because there seemed to be a working, vintage soda fountain that had been either restored or resurrected against the side wall opposite to where they were going.
The place reminded him of Fortnum’s Used Books, which obviously had a shit ton of books, not to mention sold vinyl. But it had a coffee counter at the front. And you didn’t go to Fortnum’s unless it was to hit the coffee counter and grab the best coffee in the city…or to hang around because it was the kind of place where you wanted to hang.
And Jag wanted to hang at S.I.L., walk around, check shit out, and maybe get a cherry Coke.
Archie wasn’t gonna let that happen.
She was pulling him to a door that had no window, but there was a big square one in the wall beside it.
He was guessing it was her office.
He was pleased to see she didn’t leave it open, she had to dig in her pants to get the key (no mini-skirt, movie T-shirt and Doc Martens today (fuck him running)).
Nope.
She had on bright yellow oversize pants that hung sexy on her hips and were rolled up in wide cuffs at the hems, a tiny, white, ribbed tank that fit her like a second skin, and a pair of vivid green, spike-heeled pumps that he just noticed and the sight of them he felt in his dick.
Which was what he was concentrating on when she unlocked her office, tugged him in, shut the door, then pushed him up against it and got close.
Okay.
Yeah.
He needed her to back off.
More accurately, his cock needed her to back off.
Pronto.
He didn’t get the chance to say that.
She got there before he did.
“First, we have a rule here at S.I.L. We don’t call the young ’uns ‘fucks’ or ‘motherfuckers’.”
She left that a beat, and when he didn’t respond, she continued.
“And tied for that top spot on the don’t side of our do’s and don’ts list, we don’t threaten them.”
Even if all he could see was her, he could still feel the glimpse of her sexy shoes in his crotch, and he could smell her and she smelled like pepper and moonlight and flowers (the only way he could describe her scent was “luminous,” and Jag was not a poetic person, but there it was).
He still started laughing.
“Jagger, I’m not being funny,” she said into his laughter.
“Babe, you could have a neon sign coming from the ceiling pointing to them that said ‘bullies’ and those two would still scream that shit louder than neon. And the only way to handle a bully is to be a bigger bully.”
“Yeah? Do you have years of juvenile counseling and study of adolescents under your belt to back that wisdom?”
“No, but I was a kid once.” Then, out of curiosity, he asked, “Do you?”
“Jagger,” she snapped.
And even pissed, he serious as fuck liked the sound of his name coming from her mouth.
So he said, super low, “Baby, I know we are nowhere near here, but I really dig what you’re wearing and you smell great, so do a man a solid, and take a couple steps back.”
Her eyelids straight-up fluttered in a sexy version of surprise and she took a gigantic step back.
Now he could see the whole package, which didn’t help, but he couldn’t smell moonlight and her lips weren’t a duck of his head away anymore, so that was good.
For more than one reason, he moved to the window, and looked out of it.
There was stuff in the way, but he saw all the kids were cleaning up the mess, and it looked like some staffers were helping them.
The cash registers—and there were two, one on either side of the front door—were up high, with a view to the whole of the space.
And from what he could tell, there was ice cream at the soda fountain.
He still wanted a cherry Coke.
“You got real cherry Coke at that fountain?” he asked the window.
“Jagger,” she called.
He turned to her.
She was leaning a hip against a messy desk, her hair was piled on top of her head, a lot of long tendrils floating down, some of them she’d braided, and yeah.
He should have continued looking out the window.
“I was handling that,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked. “How? Mal looked like he was about to piss his pants, the only thing stopping him was how upset he was that your store was fucked up.”
She pressed her lips tight together.
Nope.
She didn’t miss that Mal was messed up about whatever happened out there.
“Why do you have a boatload of kids hanging out at your store?” he asked. “And don’t tell me they’re customers.”
He turned his head to look out and watched how the kids were moving while they helped clean up.
This was their space.
He returned his attention to Archie. “They’re here a lot.”
“They’re group.”
“What’s group?”
She pushed away from her desk and started, “Jag—”
He turned fully to her, lifted a hand, dropped it, and cut her off, saying, “Okay, this is where we are.”
She looked surprised.
Then she appeared to be settling in and she did this putting her hands on her hips.
She had thin, long, elegant fingers, she varnished her nails and shaped them into ovals. They were painted white. And he wanted to spend some time looking at the tats she had there and on her wrists, which were tiny, but they looked cool.
That would have to be later.
For now…
“I’m done dicking around—” he began.
“Well, it’s good you are, but—”
“Listen to me, A, and don’t interrupt,” he ordered.
“This may have escaped you, J, but you’re in my office, in my store, and you can’t tell me how shit is gonna go down here. Or, really, anywhere.”
“Okay,” he crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against her window, “you tell me. How’s this gonna go down?”
“First, I’m not a big fan of being called babe.”
“Noted.”
He said it.
He didn’t mean it.
She was totally a babe and he hoped she would soon be his babe.
So that was sticking.
She could find that out later.
But for now, they needed to move this along.
“Second, it actually doesn’t matter if you call me babe or not. The window where we could have been something to each other has closed. I’ve moved on. You need to move on.”
“What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five?”