She reached past him, her arm brushing his as she grabbed the spray bottle. “Stop oversharing, Isaacs. I didn’t ask you about your bedroom habits.”

He laughed under his breath and then met her eyes, his gaze flickering with something more serious. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” she asked, somehow frozen in that gaze of his.

“Thanks.”

“For the toilet?” she asked.

“No. For just, I don’t know, being how you are…” He looked back to the sink and started scrubbing again. “A lot of people say ‘fresh start’ and don’t mean it. You do. It’s…nice to be able to joke around with you again.”

She stared at him, her words leaving her for a moment and something twisting in her chest. The wounds between them would always be there, but in the deepest, darkest tangled part of her, something loosened a little.

Their friendship had helped forge her personality. For better or worse, Ash was a part of her. Her world just felt more aligned having him there, not having to hate him.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You’re easy to be friends with, Ash. Always were.”

Ash glanced over as if checking if she was telling the truth or messing with him. Whatever he saw in her face must’ve pleased him because the genuine smile he gave her broke her a little.

“Except when you went through that pine-scented cologne phase,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You weren’t easy to be friends with then.”

He laughed. “I was trying to be rustic and manly.”

“You smelled like one of those Christmas-tree car deodorizers people hang from their mirrors.” She leaned over and sniffed, catching his scent beneath the astringent layer of the cleaners they were using. “You smell better now.”

He laughed. “Did you just smell me? I think I feel violated.”

“My apologies.”

“So what do I smell like?” he asked, leaning against the sink, curiosity on his face.

She shrugged. “Like a writer. A mix of coffee and angst.”

He snorted.

In truth, he smelled like Ash. Irish Spring soap and something earthier beneath it. It was a scent imprinted on her brain from all the nights they’d hung out, the nights they’d slept in the same bed. For a long time, she’d associated that scent with safety. Comfort.

Now it just scrambled her brain, sending her thoughts down paths where they shouldn’t go.

She dropped the toilet brush into the holder. “I’m going to sort some books.”

She walked out without waiting for a response.

Ten

Ash was covered with a fine layer of grime by the time the orange rays of late-afternoon sun slanted across the store shelves. He’d cleaned the rest of the bathroom, which hadn’t been in bad shape, and then had set about helping Kincaid to box up any books that weren’t on shelves. Charlie and Grace had taken to stacking books they didn’t have shelf space for and stuffing those stacks into every nook and cranny of the store, including on top of the bookshelves. The layer of dust atop those stacks told him exactly how effective a selling technique a teetering tower of books was. Customers were probably terrified they’d pull one book and set off a Jenga-like avalanche through the whole store.