“So he didn’t stay in close contact?”
“Not really, no. But by the time the divorce was final, we weren’t used to close contact with him, anyway. He came to visit when he felt like it. He called on special occasions and sent gifts on our birthdays. He paid child support. The three of us are his only kids, but he’s had several wives. His fourth marriage just collapsed. I don’t think he’s a bad person, necessarily. He’s just not an extremely good one, either.”
“Essentially, your mom raised the three of you single-handedly.”
“Yes. At holidays, my sisters and I don’t get tugged like a dog toy between our parents.” He pushed open the door. He wore narrow navy pants and a pale blue button-down. On top of that, a nubby, gray cardigan. On top of that, a relaxed light brown blazer.
Her vision took a slow sweep of him before landing on his eyes. “Can you try buttoning the middle two buttons on the cardigan?”
He did so, then pushed back the sides of the blazer when he slid his hands into his pockets.
A sparkling grin overtook her mouth. “This is it! It reads artist in residence . . . but not in a stuffy way. In a sexy way. It’s classic but it has a modern edge.” She approached and smoothed down one of the blazer’s lapels. That brought her so close he could smell the pear scent of her perfume. He stilled.
And for a moment she did, too.
Their profiles were so close. His heart began to pound—
Blinking, she stepped abruptly back. “Do you love this ensemble? If you don’t, I’m going to have to debate you on this one until you do.”
“I love it. In part, because I’ve never been interested in debate.”
She rushed toward the center of the shop and returned with Ron.
“Good choices,” the older man said admiringly when he came to stand in front of Connor.
“Can you check to make sure everything is fitting him the best way possible?” Shay asked Ron. “I don’t know anything about men’s sizing.”
“Sure.”
“Once you figure that out, I’d be extremely grateful if you could help me locate more outfits that have this exact same vibe.”
“Absolutely.”
Connor looked after his mom. It felt strange and irresistible to have Shay look after him, even if just for a few minutes.
“Molly won’t stand a chance,” she told him.
“I hope not.”
Chapter Four
Shay’s desk in her childhood bedroom would’ve been the envy of Office Depot.
Around the time her parents’ marriage had detonated, she’d quit asking for things as childish as toys for birthday and Christmas gifts. Instead, she’d requested pens in every color, adorable little journals, personalized note cards, notepads, girly scissors, staplers, and dry erase boards. It had seemed to her that if she could fill the air with Broadway tunes and keep her desk cute and organized, then she could maintain some control over her fracturing life.
She’d ended up losing her father’s presence in their home and her parents’ goodwill toward one another. But she’d never lost her love of stationery.
Mrs. Kirby, her art teacher, had noticed this about Shay. One day when Shay was in eleventh grade, she’d asked, Have you ever considered a career in stationery design? You could manage your own shop and sell your designs, among other things. It seems to me that’s the intersection of your talents and interests.
Over the weeks that followed, Mrs. Kirby passed her article after article about women who’d built successful stationery lines or successful stationery shops. For the first time, looking at those articles, Shay had seen her future unfold.
The decisions she’d made afterward had been in pursuit of her new dream. She’d selected her college and major accordingly. Her freshman year, she’d begun selling her creations on Etsy. All profit went into a fund for her future business. Same with the profit from the first job she took after graduation, with a graphic design firm. Same with the money she saved by renting the matchbox apartment where she still lived.
Three years after college graduation, she’d saved enough (when combined with capital investments from both parents and a small-business loan) to open Papery.
Three more years had come and gone, and revenue had climbed steadily—almost all of which she folded back into the business. Her designs had taken over more and more of Papery’s retail space. She’d funneled her Etsy clients to Papery’s website, which enjoyed fantastic traffic. Six months ago, she’d struck up a collaboration with Chic, a chain of women’s clothing stores across the South that also stocked items like stationery, bath products, and candles. Her business had grown so much that she’d hit two milestones recently. She’d paid her parents back and hired an employee.
Gabe had finished college a year ago and come to work for her three months later. He’d received a business degree because he’d been undecided about his major and business had seemed like the most sensible choice. It had only taken him a day and a half of working for a stockbroker to realize that he did not want to work for a stockbroker or, indeed, at any kind of business-sector job for the rest of his life. He’d accepted the job at Papery in order to buy himself time to figure out his life plan. So far, he’d explored the ideas of culinary school, employment on cruise ships, and the field of social work.
Affable and trustworthy, Gabe was the ideal employee. She spent more time with him than anyone in her life because of their overlapping work hours. Thus, he’d quickly climbed into her inner circle alongside her brother and Ash and Danielle, the two friends she’d had since elementary school.
On this Thursday afternoon they were alone in the shop. Aware that their solitude wouldn’t last long, they were taking this opportunity to open the newest box of their advent calendar.
The calendar looked like a wooden house, tall and narrow, filled with two-inch square drawers. At the end of November, he’d packed the even days with tiny gifts for her and she’d packed the odd days with tiny gifts for him. At the moment, he stood behind the checkout counter, and she stood on its other side, the calendar between them displayed next to a charming arrangement of boxed Christmas cards.
She slid open the drawer marked “10” to reveal a pink translucent eraser wrapped in cellophane. According to the label, it smelled like peonies. The same measure of delight that would’ve swept through her at age eight, swept through her at twenty-eight. “A new eraser that smells like peonies!” He knew she had a weakness for both the look and scent of fresh peonies. “You combined two things I love,” she said, holding the eraser aloft, “further proving that you’re annoyingly good at gift giving.”
He winked. “I know.”
“I actually love it when I make a mistake with a mechanical pencil because it’s so satisfying to smooth it away with an eraser like this one.”
“Go wild, boss.”
“I intend to. Thank you.” She tucked the eraser into the large front pocket of the apron she wore when on the job. Her apron and Gabe’s had been hand-made of sturdy beige fabric with Papery written across the front in white calligraphy.
She checked her smart watch.