He cautioned himself to quit checking her out. Clients—even potential clients and especially cute, grieving clients—were offlimits. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be,” he said. “You had a terrible shock. I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know your mother, but my daughter loves this bookstore. Dorothy comes here all the time.”

“Dorothy with the yellow pigtails? About yea high?” She sniffled, then gestured with her hand.

“Sounds like my girl.”

“She came in the other day and bought herself a couple of books. She is adorable.”

He flashed a grin of pride. Everybody said that about his kid. And everybody was right. “Thanks. So do we reschedule, or …”

“Please. Come on in. I was just … My plans for the day have changed.” She took a breath. Squared her shoulders and tipped up her chin. “When all this happened, I left a good steady job up in Sonoma, thinking I’d take over the shop. I woke up this morning and realized I’m never going to make this work, so I came out here to jump in my car and drive to Archangel and ask for my old job back. I left in a fit of pique and I shouldn’t have.”

As the words rushed out of her, he tried to imagine her in a fit of pique. For some reason, that sounded sexy to him. He’d been living like a monk for so long that pretty much everything sounded sexy to him.

“Then I saw that my car had been towed,” she said, “and I’ve decided to take it as a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

“I’m taking over the bookstore, and I intend to make it work, after all.” For the first time, something approaching a smile softened her face. Damn, he thought, she’s a looker. “Recognize that burning smell?” she asked.

“What?”

“A bridge, maybe?”

“Sounds like you’re committed.”

“At this point, my options are limited.” She showed him the street-level door to the residential foyer. Next to that was the bookstore entrance. She unlocked it and they walked through the darkened shop. She stopped at the coffee station to turn on a gleaming silver espresso machine. It came to life with a steamy sigh. She poured roasted beans and turned on the coffee mill. Over the gnashing of the grinder, she asked, “How do you like your coffee?”

He regarded her blankly. When the mill stopped, he asked, “You’re making me a coffee? With that thing?”

“Sure. Nowadays, you really can’t have a bookshop without coffee.”

He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had made him a cup of coffee. “I may never leave,” he said. “Americano, black. Please.”

“My grandfather will be up in a while. Have a seat and we can go over your list.”