Since You Happened by Holly Hall
Chapter 1
Four Years Later
“That one’s not for sale.” A male voice startles me from where I’m staring into a glass-fronted cabinet at what appear to be very old copies of books on display—first editions, maybe.
“Oh . . . I was just looking.” I take a sip of lukewarm coffee from a paper cup, turning toward the voice. I’m immediately taken aback; the man it belongs to doesn’t match the appearance of what I would deem typical for a bookstore associate, and it makes the gulp I just took slide down my throat like a golf ball.
He’s probably six-one, maybe six-two, with caramel-brown eyes and curly hair almost the same shade. Golden shafts of light slanting through the shop windows highlight five-day stubble that covers the majority of his jaw, ticking off yet another box on the list of qualities that I’ve determined to be my type, but who’s counting? Aside from his musculature—evident in a fitted, black v-neck—his eyes are what captivate my attention. They have an unreadable depth to them, like he’s seen far more than usual during his short time on this earth.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and follows my gaze. “You like Black Beauty?”
My attention returns to one of the books in the case. “Yeah, actually. One of my favorite books. I was just admiring this collection.” His gaze holds mine, but his eyes don’t express the interest that would signify him checking me out.
“First time here,” he says, more as a statement than a question, looking around as if to ensure that nobody needs his assistance. Or to wish that he was anywhere but here. I’m not really sure.
“Yeah, strangely. I live just a few blocks from here, but I don’t usually venture out this way. My friend lured me here with the promise of free coffee.” I hold up my cup in explanation.
He stares at the cup for a few seconds before meeting my eyes. “Hmm,” he says, his lips pursed in a way that he probably means to be stern, but that I think is endearing. “Maybe I should start charging.”
My eyes widen slightly. “Do you own this place or something?”
“Yeah. Landon Farrar.” He introduces himself, but he doesn’t reach out to shake my hand. He doesn’t do anything.
I nod slowly, at a loss of what to say or do. In situations like these, I usually babble, but this man doesn’t look like the type to tolerate mindless chatter. I make a mental note to screen my words more carefully before I say them. Despite his attractiveness, his unyielding posture and general lack of curiosity about a potential customer is kind of intimidating.
“My friend Haley told me a little about this place. I think it’s awesome, what you do—donate your proceeds to charity. I don’t know why I haven’t been in here before.”
“I would ask, but that would probably be seen as abrasive on my part. Anyway, enjoy.” He turns to walk away, and I’m momentarily struck silent by the abruptness of the encounter. Then I realize he didn’t ask for my name.
“It’s Blake Kendall,” I call after his retreating back. He stills, turning his head just slightly in my direction. “My name,” I finish, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod before walking away. The conversation was so brief I could’ve imagined it, but it makes my head spin.
“Who was that?” my best friend Haley asks when she rounds the bookshelf.
“That was the owner. Landon Farrar.”
“Huh,” she says, shaking her head with a dazed look on her face. “Damn.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
Haley and I spend the next few minutes browsing through the bookcases of the shop before we finally leave empty-handed. To be honest, I was unable to focus on the titles printed on the spines of the neatly organized books. My mind is too hung up on the enigmatic man I’ve just met. It’s never a good idea to let my imagination run away with itself, but for now, I’m kind of enjoying it.
I turn my face toward the sun, soaking up the last rays of sunshine before autumn comes blowing in. All around us, people dart this way and that, on work assignments or running errands, and traffic ebbs and flows down the city streets.
I love the city and its noise, the way you can step out onto the sidewalk and life just bustles around you like a river around a stone. It’s oddly comforting knowing I can get lost in a place like this and nobody but my best friends truly know what I’ve done or who I was before I came here. My mother was worried sick when I first announced I was moving to Denver after nursing school and getting an apartment on my own, insisting that the world is a dangerous place. I just tell her that everywhere is dangerous and make it seem like I spend more time surrounded by company than I actually do to reassure her.
“I’ve got to get back to the office.” Haley’s words break into my thoughts as she digs for her keys. “Have you decided if you’re going to give Kevin another chance?”
Frat Guy Kevin. The thought of him in his pastel pants and loafers makes me scoff out loud. “No, probably not.” Definitely not is more like it. “He was more interested in reminiscing about college than getting to know me. He graduated when we did—four years ago.”
“Shame. I thought he was kind of cute. I’ll update you later on how it goes with Marshall.”
“Marshall?”
“The guy I met on Tinder I was telling you about earlier. The sales manager.”
“Manager Marshall,” I murmur. Haley and I have a habit of giving men nicknames to remember them by. It helps to keep our stories straight when we recount them at happy hour while reminiscing on our dating disasters. In the past few months, Personal Trainer George, Medical Salesman Adam, and Engineer Travis have all stepped up to the plate and struck out.
“Manager Marshall,” Haley agrees with a giggle.
When we reach her car, I wave her off. “Good luck tonight. If you need me to bail you out, just text the secret phrase.”
“What’s the secret phrase this time?” She pauses with one leg in the car and one leg out.
“Um. Abort?” I suggest with a shrug.
“That’s the worst secret phrase in the world. And if he sees that, he’s immediately going to be suspicious.”
“You won’t care what he’s thinking when you use the secret phrase,” I call over my shoulder as I walk up the street.
“True. Have fun at work tonight!” Haley calls, pulling her sunglasses down off her blonde head.
“I won’t!”
I can’t keep my mind from returning to the bookstore owner later, back at my apartment. I guess it was foolish to think that no guy would ever again capture my attention, it’s just strange how completely he’s occupied mine. Though I’m in the kitchen cooking an early dinner before my shift, with some trashy reality TV to serve as background noise, I keep replaying the few words Landon said to me over and over in my head.
He was abrasive—borderline rude, if I’m being honest—but something about our conversation stokes my curiosity. The encounter has left me feeling strangely off balance, and I’m usually one to let things just bounce right off me, no matter how offensive. Something about him fascinates me. I briefly consider going back to the bookstore, if not for a book then just to see if I run into him again.
Maybe today was a fluke. He could’ve just had a terrible morning. Lord knows I have plenty.
I return the next day around lunchtime, though I work nights at the hospital and am usually at home catching up on sleep by now. I doubt I would get much rest if I returned to my apartment, anyway. It’s almost embarrassing how preoccupied my thoughts have stayed. In any case, Denver is too beautiful in September to spend my day holed up in my apartment.
The bookstore wraps me in the smells of printed pages, a hint of dust and old wood, and the soft strains of Ron Pope singing from hidden speakers as soon as I enter. Now that I have my bearings, maybe I’ll find a book I’m interested in reading on this trip. It is for charity, after all. Potentially running into the attractive owner is just an added bonus—or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I fail to contain my groan when I spot the kid at the cash register who’s a few inches too short, and way too pimply, to be Landon. When he looks over at me, I quickly focus my attention on my phone, like it was something on the screen that warranted that reaction.
Actually paying attention while perusing the aisles proves to be a lot more difficult when I know who might be lurking around the corner, however, and by the time I reach the end of the first aisle, I’ve come up with nothing. Not even a prospect. Luckily, I end up at the coffee station. With cup in hand, I turn the corner to continue browsing.
“Back again so soon?” a familiar voice says from behind me, making the little hairs raise on the back of my neck. I send a casual look in his direction, trying to emulate just how indifferent he seemed yesterday. I don’t think I’m very good at it, and the sight before me makes it difficult to remain unimpressed. He’s carrying a box of books, and even though my look was brief, I didn’t miss the way his biceps flexed as his hands supported the weight. There’s no way he can’t be married, but I don’t remember seeing a ring on his finger.
“I didn’t find a book yesterday. You have a way of scaring off potential customers.” I pretend to scan the titles on the shelf in front of me.
He doesn’t acknowledge that. Instead, he says, “At this rate, I’ll have to run back to the store for more Breakfast Blend.” When I give him a questioning look, he inclines his head toward my coffee cup. I would take it as playful banter if he were smiling, but he isn’t. His eyes are filled with the same hard intensity as yesterday.
“Are you this charming with all your customers?” I reach up and pull a book out of the lineup above me, briefly examining the cover before sliding it back in.
“I am when I want to be,” he answers, taking a book from the box he’s holding and shelving it. I thought they had carts for that, not that I’m complaining.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, Mr. Farrar.” His eyes narrow slightly, but he keeps his focus trained on his task. He raises another book in his left hand and slides it into place. Nope, definitely not wearing a ring.
“How long has this place been open?”
“Two years.” He puts a book in place with a thump.
“Have you always been in the book business?”
“Have you always asked this many questions?” His tone carries a barely discernible edge, but I recognize it instantly. This is someone who doesn’t appreciate innocent curiosity.
I raise my eyebrow slowly at him and select a book, flipping it to read the back cover. “When I’m interested in the subject.”
“How long have you been interested in the subject?”
I smirk at him. “Oh, we can play this game all day, Farrar. I’m an open book, unlike you. Don’t be afraid to ask me what you really want to know.”
“I’m not sure I’m interested in the subject,” he says, and though it could be considered off-putting, his comment warrants a small smile from me.
I have a thing against people who say all the right things. He seems to say all the wrong ones, and I’m not sure that’s much better, though it does seem more honest. His stern tone does nothing to deter me, because he reminds me a little of myself. The way he acts, it’s like everything is wrong with the world. I act as though everything is right. I don’t even know him, but I already feel like we have that in common: pretending.
“Fair enough, Farrar.”
He pauses a moment. “You know my name is Landon.”
“Are we already on a first name basis, Landon? I wasn’t sure.” I place another book back in line with the others and move on. I’m over-aware of the fact that he’s keeping pace with me, placing books on the shelves as I vacate the area, while keeping a farther-than-considered-normal distance.
“No.”
“No we’re not on a first name basis?”
“No, I haven’t always been in the book business. I had a career before.”
“Before what?” I inquire, inferring that “before” means more than just the day he opened this bookstore.
He tsks. “You know what they say about curiosity. I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”
I give a careless shrug. “Shoot.”
“Did you get bored with your side of town?”
“I’m not sure it’s my side; I only live a few blocks away.”
“And yet, you said it was your first time here. If you’re so interested in books, how is it that you’ve never been here?”
“First off, I work long hours—night shift—so I’m usually asleep by now. Beyond that, well, your sign outside is a little discreet. And my extracurricular activities never bring me out this way.”
“Ah.” He doesn’t rise to the bait to ask what my extracurricular activities are. Truthfully, they’re pretty boring, but he doesn’t need to know that. “So you decided recently that it would be a good idea to bum coffee and berate the staff during your time off.”
“You know, for the owner of a charitable business, you don’t seem too keen on selling anything.” I scrutinize him for a moment before turning back to the shelves.
“You don’t seem to be buying,” he counters, eyeing my cup again.
I reach out and grab a book that’s sitting at eye-level directly in front of me. “I am now.” I smile and turn away, focusing everything I have on heading casually toward the counter without tripping over my shoelaces. By the time I pay and push the door open with my hip, Landon Farrar has disappeared.
Thursday evening brings with it happy hour with the girls—a weekly tradition, when we all get a spare moment in our busy lives. Usually, we use the time to laugh over margaritas about Haley’s latest online dating nightmare or Arielle’s issues with her creepy boss at work. I don’t want to open a can of worms by bringing up a guy I know next to nothing about, but I can’t resist using the opportunity to pick Arielle’s brain.
“Arielle, you’re the philanthropist, what do you know about Forever Grace, the bookstore?” I turn to the girl who’s become one of my closest friends in the years since college.
“Oh, that little place off Drummond?”
“That’s the one.” I load a chip up with guacamole and take a generous bite.
“Well, the owner picks a different organization every month to donate the proceeds to, but other than that, I don’t know much. He doesn’t do many interviews or speak at any events. I guess people just learn about the place through word of mouth.”
“I can see that,” I say slowly, realizing too late that I’ve insinuated I know enough about him to form my own opinions of the man.
“What makes you say that?” She tilts her head, the corkscrew curls of her natural, black hair bobbing.
“I met him the other day. He wasn’t enthusiastic about answering my questions about the shop.”
“Oh, what was he like?”
“Hot,” Haley answers.
“Young. Broody. Attractive.” I don’t think all the words in the English language are enough to describe that man, but those three are the most noteworthy.
“Oh?” Arielle raises her sculpted eyebrows. “I feel like everyone in the book business is either really weird or really exuberant. I guess this one could be weird?”
“Maybe. I don’t know enough about him to say.”
Our fajita platter arrives, and the focus turns to preparing our tacos and discussing upcoming weddings, and all conversation of Landon Farrar is placed on the backburner. As is the common theme over the past few days, though, he stays at the forefront of my mind. Whether it’s his overall attractiveness or air of mystery that captivates me, I can’t say, but the little bits of information he’s fed me leave me hungry to find out more.