Chapter Eighteen
“Move your ass, Nick! Faint heart never won fair lady.” Leo gunned the engine as Nick locked his front door.
“You haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“To defend your woman’s honor.” Leo flashed a pirate grin and peeled out before Nick even closed the passenger door.
“What’s with all the signs in the back seat? You running for office?”
“A bit of political activism. We’re resisting gentrification, protesting corporate homogenization…” He waggled his eyebrows. “We’re stickin’ it to the man.”
“Which man?”
Leo’s comical theatrics were amusing, but it had taken Nick weeks to get this appointment in the university library’s rare books collection.
He quickly forgot about his appointment as they zoomed around the corner and onto Willamette Street. Clara’s bookshop was just up ahead, the entrance obscured by a crowd, mostly university students, with a sprinkling of gray and white heads among the dreadlocks and hipster beards. They milled about in front of the one-story brick building, waving signs and chanting, “Save Book Nirvana! Save Book Nirvana!”
Leo sandwiched his Toyota into a not-quite-legal parking space and hopped out.
“Take your pick, Nicko-me-boy.” He held up three poster boards in neon colors: Books, not Beer; Save Our Indie Bookshops; and a quote from Cicero: A room without books is like a body without a soul.
Nick tightened his jaw, pushed away the proffered signs, and grabbed his friend’s collar. “Leo, why are they picketing Clara’s shop?”
“Haven’t you heard? Landlord’s selling it out from under her. Gonna turn the place into a bar.”
“But that’s—she didn’t—I just talked to her yesterday!” He grabbed the Cicero sign from Leo’s hand and strode across the street, nearly colliding with a local news van. As he pushed his way through the crowd, a familiar swath of glossy black hair caught his eye. “Darcy?”
She wore an army surplus jacket. The sign she waved read Resist corporate takeover!
“Hey, Nick! Isn’t this great?” She elbowed him with her free arm. “The things we do for love, right?” She turned to the crowd and hollered in a high, piercing voice. “Buy a book, people! Buy a book!”
He yanked the shop door open and pushed through the throng of customers. Behind the counter, the old guy and Margot rang up books while Clara, wide-eyed and pale, fielded questions from a TV reporter while clutching the cat to her chest like a furry shield.
“Mrs. Martelli, what do you say to all these loyal customers who’ve gathered to support you?”
“Um, thank you?”
Alarmed by Clara’s pallor, he dropped his sign and rushed to her side.
A flash of relief danced across her face. “Nick, I…”
Her chin wobbled, sending a bolt of emotion right to his core. He planted himself between the camera and Clara. “Could we have a moment, please?”
With a shrug, the reporter motioned her camera operator over to the long line of customers waiting at the counter.
He gently took Clara’s elbow and led her behind the wooden screen, out of view of the crowd. “Clara, what is going on? Leo says your shop’s in trouble. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She collapsed into her desk chair and raked both hands through her hair. “It was Margot. She didn’t talk to me first. She just summoned them!”
“All these people?”
She nodded. “She tweeted, and snap-chatted, and I don’t know what else.” A fat tear rolled down her cheek. “She meant well, but she may have ruined everything, Nick.”
Her arms twined around his middle and she buried her face against his stomach. Stroking her soft, wavy hair, he crooned, “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” He yearned to say something, do something more helpful, but what? All he knew was the woman he loved was in distress and—
The woman he loved.
The weight of that thought hit him like a warm, fuzzy bomb, right in the gut. He knelt beside the desk, cupped Clara’s face. “Babe, tell me. What’s going on?”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yesterday, after you left, I met with the landlord. His son wants to end our lease, the coffee shop too, and put in a bar.”
“Another one?”
“That’s what everyone says.” She flashed him a wobbly smile. “There are three on this block. Anyway, Lonnie, the old landlord, he was going to give us his decision today. But this—” She waved her hand toward the chaos beyond the screen. “How’s he going to react when he hears about this?”
Nick cradled her face in his hands, wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Okay, I agree. Margot didn’t think this through. In fact—” He threw a sharp glare over his shoulder. “I’ll bet Darcy helped her dream up this scheme. Sounds just like her style: damn the consequences, full speed ahead. But now all these people are here, so let’s make our case.”
Her vulnerability touched him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He wished he could just enfold her in his arms and make all this mess go away. But that wasn’t going to happen.
“Make our case how?”
“Let’s go talk to the reporter, tell her your story.” He gently tugged her to her feet. “It would take a pretty stupid landlord to evict a pretty widow and her adorable cat when half of Eugene shows up to support her. On TV.”
A second journalist had entered the shop with his own cameraman. When Nick and Clara stepped out from behind the screen, both media crews closed in like eager kids attacking a pile of cookies.
“Mrs. Martelli!” A young male reporter with shellacked hair thrust his mic into her face.
Nick held up his hand. “Just a moment, please.”
“Who are you?”
“Doctor Nick Papadopoulos. I came up from the University of California at Berkeley to shop here, because Mrs. Martelli maintains one of the finest collection of—”
Clara squeezed his arm, hard. He blinked in surprise and continued. “Of books about the social sciences. Independent bookshops like hers offer something larger, corporate chain bookstores can’t. To see this focal point of our community replaced by yet another brew pub would be a tragedy.”
He gave the camera what his sister called his “puppy-dog face,” the one he’d used as a kid to get his way. The second reporter held her mic to his face and blinked, her mouth hanging slack. Good, it was working.
“Right, so, Mrs. Martelli—” The male reporter sidestepped him and pressed his mic toward Clara.
She cleared her throat, squeezed his hand, and stepped forward. “Please, call me Clara.”
Good move.
He stepped away and let her take the spotlight, but he watched closely from beside the counter.
Margot tapped his shoulder. “You were really great, Professor. Thank you.”
He fixed her with a stern scowl. “You summoned all these people? Without telling Clara?”
“Well, I just tweeted a few friends, sent out some pictures of the shop. I guess the news spread…” She trailed off, flapping her hands.
“You did good, kiddo.” The older man beside her clapped his hand on Margot’s shoulder, then narrowed his sharp blue eyes at Nick. “And who are you?”
Nick extended his hand. “Nick Papadopoulos. I’m Clara’s—friend.”
“Is that right?” The old man’s grip was like a vise, and his tight glare warned he wasn’t the only one feeling protective of Clara.
The reason for the old guy’s enmity soon became clear. A tall, lanky guy about his age with pale eyes and a shiny shaved head pushed his way through the crowd of customers still milling in the shop’s entrance. He waved to the older guy, then made a beeline for Clara, who had finished her interview and leaned against the counter clutching her necklace.
She glanced up at the newcomer’s approach, and her worried expression relaxed into a weary smile. Without a word, the guy enfolded Clara in his long, gangly arms, held her to his chest, and rocked her.
And she let him.
Waves of heat and cold raced each other up and down Nick’s spine. His hands clenched at his sides. Clearly, he was up against some serious competition, but there was no way he was backing off now. If he had to fight for Clara’s time and affection, so be it.
****
Clara gently extricated herself from Doug’s arms. The look on his face was one she wouldn’t soon forget: sharp concern mixed with warm affection. She squinted up at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“One of my students saw the ruckus on Twitter. Apparently, she buys her manga comics here. She wanted to stage a walk-out to come support your shop. And to skip math class.” He glanced around at the crowd still filling the front of the shop from wall to wall. “I have planning period after lunch, so I came right over. Tell me what you need, Clara. What can I do?”
“Introduce me to your friend, Clara?” Nick stepped behind Doug and glared like a guard dog on high alert, dark eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, jaw tight.
Oh, crap.
Unprepared for this confrontation, she’d hoped to keep her two suitors separate until she decided which was a better fit. Too late.
Alerted by the tightness in Nick’s voice, Doug straightened to his full height and turned to face his rival.
The contrast between the two men was striking. Doug’s wiry muscularity wasn’t as dramatic as Nick’s sculpted physique, but he stood a good three inches taller. While he lacked Nick’s classically handsome looks and lush hair, Doug’s bony face and deep-set blue eyes radiated sincerity and warmth. Doug was all sinew and bone, sharp planes and angles, built for speed and endurance. Nick, on the other hand was muscular and powerful, dark and elegant, and undeniably beautiful. And his fists were clenched at his sides.
Oh Lord, so were Doug’s.
She stepped between them. “Doug, this is Nick Papadopoulos. He’s a professor from Berkeley.”
Nick’s eyes slid toward the red door.
“Just visiting, then?” Doug’s voice rasped tense and low.
Nick nodded, lips clamped and bloodless.
The two men stood toe to toe, each silently taking the measure of the other.
Her stomach knotted, but damn it, she’d been fair. She’d told each of them she was seeing someone else. So why did she feel so guilty?
Doug broke the silence. “You have anything to do with all this?”
Nick stepped back, relaxed his squint. “No, you?”
“I didn’t see any of my students out there.”
She interjected, “Doug’s a high school teacher. Social studies.”
Nick raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Just then, raised voices outside drew their attention to the front door. The landlord and his son were pushing their way through the crowd. Red faced and scowling, Darryl lowered his head like a charging bull and headed straight for Clara.
The two men closed ranks in front of her, shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed. When Darryl darted to the right, Nick’s hand shot out and grasped his arm. Darryl winced and headed left. Doug planted his long, bony hand right in the middle of the smaller man’s chest.
Lonnie caught up, grasped his son’s jacket, and yanked him backward. “Cool it, Darryl.”
“But, Pops, this is…this is…” He spluttered and gasped as if he’d been dunked in a swimming pool.
“I said hush.”
Pouting like a scolded toddler, Darryl stepped back and let his father have his say.
Lonnie’s jowly face flushed, but a hint of amusement twinkled in his gray eyes. “Clara, care to explain this?”
“Lonnie, it wasn’t my doing. One of my employees tweeted about our possible closure, and the news spread.”
He crossed his arms and glanced at Margot and Harry, still bustling behind the counter. “I can guess which one. Anyway, I want you to know, this doesn’t affect my decision.”
Her stomach dropped. “So, you’ve decided.”
He nodded, his face solemn. “Two months.”
“Dad, you—”
Lonnie raised his hand, and his son spluttered to a stop.
A smile slowly blossomed across her face. She’d been granted a reprieve.
“I’ll extend your lease for two months, and then the rent goes up. Take it or leave it.” He glanced up at her two protectors, both still glaring at him, and softened his tone.
“It’s a fair market price, Clara. Other merchants on this street play at least that much per square foot. I’m fond of you, but I’ve got a family to support.” He rolled his eyes toward his red-faced son.
Clara nodded. “Okay. Fair is fair. And thank you, Lonnie.”
From behind his father, Darryl huffed. “Now will you call off the dogs?”
She straightened her posture and scowled. “If you’re referring to my customers, Darryl, they’ll leave when they’re done buying books.” She took a deep breath. “Lonnie, does Arnie get the same deal?”
“Same deal.”
“Good. Do you have time for a coffee now?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“I’d like to talk to you about that doorway. Doug, can you stay a few more minutes?”
Doug slid his gaze toward Nick, his smile just a bit smug. “Sure. Let’s go next door.”
“I’ll be right with you.” She waved him on.
While Doug and Lonnie moved toward the exit, she turned to Nick, who watched them go, his dark eyes narrowed.
“Nick, thank you. You don’t know how much your help means to me.”
“And Doug? How is he helping you?” His tone softened, but his posture was still rigid.
“He’s going to open up the wall between the coffee shop and our place if the landlord allows it.” The other ways Doug might help her—those, she wasn’t ready to discuss with Nick.
Nick cupped her elbows, pulled her a step closer. “I want to help too, Clara.”
“But you won’t be here.”
“Not as often as I’d like, but I can spread the word about your shop. Especially about the red door.” Something flashed behind his eyes. “Have you taken Doug back there?”
She blushed, stepped closer. “No.”
“Good.” His phone pinged in his pocket. He pulled it out and tapped the screen. “Damn. Sorry, I have an appointment with some rare books. I wish I could stay.”
“Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She stood on tiptoe, brushed a soft kiss across his cheek. His freshly shaved skin was smooth and scented with a subtle, mossy cologne. “Should I dress up?”
He pressed his soft, warm lips against her temple. “I want you to be comfortable. See you tomorrow.”
A faint smile on her lips, she watched him slide through the crowd. Comfortable was not how Nick made her feel. Stirred up, aflutter, rosy warm and soft and languid and tingly—but not comfortable.