Don't Judge a Bear by His Cover (2 page)

So what if doing so will lacerate my soul even further? So what if browbeating another dear old man into despair will make it all the harder to look at myself in the mirror? It'll serve only to throw fuel on the furnace of my self-loathing. But it's the last time. It's the last time. After this I'm quits. A free spirit, able to escape my father's clutches and do - well - whatever I want. The future for the first time is almost terrifyingly blank, an unknown, a blank easel that I can paint as I wish.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my briefcase and get out of my car. I take a moment to study the bookstore. It looks almost more like an old-fashioned Irish pub, with 'The Bear's Book Cave' painted in gilded golden letters a foot high across the front of the facade. The bookstore is otherwise painted black, with the large window to the left of the door blocked completely by stacked books. I'm surprised. No effort has gone into making the place inviting. No sandwich boards promising tea and cookies within. No half-price carts of old books put out to entice frugal shoppers. No potted plants. Nothing inviting in the window.

I find myself strangely fascinated. This place is doing well? I cross the street and push open the heavy front door, and am immediately greeted by the familiar smell of old paper. Leather covers. A scent that reminds me of my favorite childhood memories, but which has recently become tainted. It's gloomy inside, and I take a moment to let my eyes adjust.

The place is crammed with bookcases, a small warren of literature, except for a small open space in the center dominated by a high table like a judge's desk in a courtroom. Despite the bright sunshine outside, the store is illuminated by yellow lights, giving the whole place the feel of a real cave.

I don't have time to look around much. Three massive men are facing each other in the area before the desk, and the tension between them is electric. My god, they're huge. Each of them is easily over six feet in height, massively broad across the shoulders, and muscled like wrestlers. I step quietly to one side, eyes wide.

Not only are they huge, but they're hot. All three must be in their early thirties, and they look like mountain men, or the heroic ideal of what a mountain man could be. Bearded, with handsome, stern features, powerful hands, thick chests, and arms snarled with heavy muscle. Any one of them could have appeared on a billboard and I wouldn't have blinked twice.

Two are facing off against one, as if he's an intruder here, and in truth he does look a little different. The intruder is wearing what looks like a leather bike jacket, a stitched bear claw embroidered on the back. His arms are tangled with tattoos, and his hands are opening and closing, as if about to form into fists and stay that way.

"I don't care what you have to say," says one of the two men facing the intruder. His voice rolls right through me like ocean waves powerful and deep. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, chin lowered, eyes narrowed. "You're wasting your time."

The biker shifts from one foot to the other, clearly not ready to give up. "Torben. Blood calls blood. Don't deny it."

Torben? My eyes go wide. The handsome hunk with the crossed arms who looks like he could fell a tree with one swing of his arms is the owner of the bookstore? I can't process that. Almost every owner I've dealt with has been old and eccentric, kindly and distracted. This man - Torben - looks like he should be up in Alaska hunting polar bears with his bare hands.

"I don't deny it." Torben's words are bitten off. He's clearly on edge. "But I can ignore it all the same. I told you, Hrald. I'm not going back."

"Damn it, Torben!" The biker - Hrald - slams his fist into the side of a bookcase, and the wood actually crunches from the force of the blow. Both of the other men drop their arms to their sides, and something subtle shifts in their stance. Like they're suddenly ready to go. To leap on the biker, and bring him crashing to the ground. God, if they start fighting in here, they'll destroy the shop. I almost step right back outside, but sheer curiosity keeps me planted to the spot.

"He's given you his answer," growls the up-till-now silent third man. He's just as gorgeous as Torben, slightly older perhaps, with the calm resoluteness of a man at peace with himself.

Silence. I feel goosebumps rush across my arms at the intensity of their gazes. None of them have noticed me. I'm a fly on the wall. The biker, Hrald, leans forward, as if into the teeth of a gale, glaring at Torben, and for a moment I'm sure things are going to get violent. Then he shakes his head and actually spits on the floor. "I'll go. But you ain't realized yet that you don't have a choice in the matter. You're coming back, whether you like it or no."

Then Hrald turns and strides right at me. I shrink back against the wall, almost cowering as he slams open the door and leaves. My heart's going a million miles an hour. I feel like a shark just swam right past me, its fin nearly touching my bare stomach. I gulp and stare at the two men who are slowly relaxing.

"You OK?" The other man claps a hand on Torben's shoulder.

"Fine." Torben's voice is gruff, and then he sighs and shakes his head, staring at the ground. "Damn him. Damn all of them."

"You don't have to go. You know that."

Torben finally looks up and nods, but he looks - glum? "I know. Thank you, Soren."

Soren snorts as if he's amused. "Of course. I'm going to stay close. There's no telling what Hrald might try. If anything happens, give me a holler. I've got your back."

"Will do. Tell Anita I send my love."

Soren grins, and like that the fierceness melts from his face and he reveals himself to be a genuinely arresting and good-natured kind of guy. "Her or her cakes?"

Torben snorts and gives Soren's shoulder a shove, which sets the other man walking toward the front door. Soren finally notices me, his expression turning neutral, and he gives me a guarded nod as he pushes open the door and steps outside.

The door closes. It's just me and Torben now. Torben Halderson. I'm still standing frozen by the door, pressed into the corner where a bookcase meets the wall, my briefcase held before me like a shield. Torben sighs, is about to turn back to his desk when he catches sight of me for the first time.

He blinks and then his eyes go wide. "Miss?"

Chapter 3

I force myself to take a deep breath. My thoughts are completely scrambled. I've never had much difficulty speaking to attractive people, but this guy is on a whole other level. Should I leave? Come back later when events aren't so tense? He's staring right at me, waiting for my response, and instinct tells me to seize the moment. To come back later would diminish the impact of my message. Would leave him with a first impression of my being afraid. I have to be bold. I have to strike.

"Mr. Halderson?" I walk forward, lowering the briefcase, striving to sound executive, tough, in control. I feel anything but.

"The same." He's trying to place me. I'm clearly not a customer intent on browsing. I'm here on some kind of business, based on my suit and briefcase. But what kind? I can see these thoughts flickering through his mind. As large and handsome and strong as he might be, he's likely to be just the same as any other bookstore owner. I feel marginally more confident as I stop before him and look up.

My, he's tall. Six four? Six five? And as broad as two men. From the way his red and black plaid shirt strains across his bulky shoulders and then hangs loose down past his broad chest, I can get a sense that he's all muscle. No flab rounds out his stomach. His jeans are cinched tight by a broad brown belt. A former football player, maybe? But I can't picture this man in a spandex football uniform. I almost laugh at the thought.

"I'm Ms. Froud." I extend my hand, and he studies it for a moment before taking it in his own. It's like shaking hands with a baseball catcher's mitt. Callused and strong, warm and powerful, I've never felt anything like it. I force myself not to gulp again. It's too easy to allow my imagination to start drifting and thinking of what he could do with his long, strong fingers.

"Ms. Froud," he rumbles. He frowns down at me. He's having trouble focusing on the conversation. He's clearly still riled up by his confrontation with Hrald. "This isn't a good time."

"I can imagine." I force myself to speak briskly, as if my time is important. "And it's only going to get worse."

"Worse?" His frown deepens and his gaze sharpens. "What are you talking about?"

Does he have to be so damn tall? I'm almost staring straight up. It's hard to act tough and intimidating with a man who's almost three times larger than you are - and I'm no small lady - and ridiculously hot.

"The book industry, Mr. Halderson. I'm speaking of the disruptive trends that are shaking the publishing world, from the rise and hegemony of online retailers to the collapse of traditional publishing houses. I'm sure -"

"Wait," says Torben, cutting me off. He looks confused. "The book industry?"

I nod, mouth thinning as if I'm losing my patience. In truth I could stare at him for hours, but it's all about psychology. Make them feel guilty for wasting your time with their questions. Put them at a disadvantage.

"You're here about the book industry? Oh." He seems relieved, the tension leaving his shoulders. "That's good. I thought you were here from - well, never mind."

Hrald, I realize. He thought for a second that maybe I was working with Hrald and his group. Turning from me, he begins to pile books into a stack.

"Mr. Halderson," I say, not liking the fact that I've been so quickly dismissed. "I'm here with a unique opportunity for you and your store."

"Mmm-hmm," he rumbles, the sound akin to large boulders shifting deep within the earth. He straightens, a tower of books in his hands, and disappears down one of the aisles.

Damn it. I don't want to trail after him like a puppy, so instead I raise my voice. "Industry predictions forecast that ebooks will claim over 85% of the publishing market within six years. The number of independent bookstores has dropped by just as much in the past three years."

"Is that so?" He pauses halfway down the aisle, considers the book at the top of his pile, and then inserts it into a space on the shelf. Then he steps through a gap in the bookcases and disappears.

"Further," I say, darting to one side till I see him in the next aisle, "the digital revolution and the rise of peer-to-peer recommendations via social media presages - presages - Mr. Halderson?"

The damned man has actually opened one of his books to read something inside. He looks up and blinks at me, as if he's surprised I'm still standing there. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Social media, you were saying." He pauses. "Isn't all media social?" Then he looks back down.

"No - social media refers to online social services like - like Facebook, or Twitter." I feel like I'm sinking in quicksand. Every instinct is telling me I'm not just losing this exchange, I'm getting clobbered. I take a deep breath. "Five hundred thousand."

He looks up again. "Hmm?"

"Five hundred thousand." I force myself to lean back on my heels, to raise my chin and stare down my nose at him. Do everything I can to convey a strict and icy cold demeanor.

"So you said. Five hundred thousand what? Penguins? Bright pink Cadillacs?"

"Dollars, Mr. Halderson. That's what my company is willing to pay you."

Torben stares at me in complete confusion. "For what?"

"The Bear's Book Cave," I say, wanting to shake him. "That's why I'm here. I represent Universal Books, and we're looking to bring you into our Indie Family - that's trademarked - so that you can benefit from our -"

"Five hundred thousand dollars?" He sets his stack of books down on a stool and walks toward me. My voice dies in my throat. He's such. A big. Man. I'm a curvy lady, but he makes me feel petite, delicate. He stops before me, hands on his hips, and stares down at me. His eyes. They don't look human. I hadn't even noticed before. They look golden. Like an animal's. Not a cat. Nor a dog. Something. I can't place it.

"Ms. Froud. Are you asking me to sell my bookstore?"

"I - um - yes." I'm having trouble concentrating. Pheromones? Is that's what's going on? I feel like my brain is being sidestepped and some form of communication is taking place between Torben and my deepest emotions. An animal part of me is stirring, coming to life, causing my stomach to tremble and my pulse to race. What the hell? One last store, I remind myself. Get it together. Make this sale.

"Why would I want to sell to you guys?" He sounds genuinely curious.

"Because. The industry. You're going to close soon." I take a slow step back, as if that might help me think straight. What would he look like without his shirt? "You're going to need support to stay open. We can give you that. And money."

I'm talking like a fool. And money? Is that my best pitch? I need a cold glass of water. No, a glass of vodka. I almost pinch myself and force a frown onto my face. "Survival, Mr. Halderson. That's what we're offering you."

"Oh," he says, and then shakes his head. "No, I think I'm good. Thanks for dropping by."

And like that, he turns and ambles back down the aisle.

I just gape after him. Can he really be that clueless? About how the world is changing? Whether they love me or hate me, every bookstore owner I've met has been eager to talk about where the industry is going, who is succeeding and who is failing. Each and every person has had their personal theories, their plans for survival. Something. Anything.

Thanks for dropping by? No way. I hustle after him, determined to not give up. "Mr. Halderson, you don't seem to realize -"

"No," he says, turning around, and like that the absent-minded and friendly mountain of a man turns into an intense and suddenly dangerous-looking mountain of a man. "You don't seem to realize that I'm not interested. I've got bigger things to deal with. Now, I've been courteous and let you talk. You've said your piece. I've said mine. We're done here. Clear?"

I want to turn and run. Even though he's still being polite, I feel like prey. Like I'm facing a wild animal that might bite at any moment. My mouth is dry. My tummy goes from fluttering to clenched. Run! my mind whispers, but I won't. I can't. One last sale, I think, and raise my finger to poke him in the chest.