Playing Knotty (23 page)

“What about staffing? Do you have enough personnel?” Ian handed the iPad back to Brent, who set it aside and nodded, gesturing as he chewed.

“Got it all figured out. I've wanted to give Keith more responsibility for a while now. He's already my assistant manager, but I'd ask him to be store manager at the new site. Then I'd promote Minsuh, who's been doing well as a key holder, and she'd take Keith's old assistant manager job. Tyber wants full-time hours, which he could get if I split him between the two locations, and I'd hire a couple more part-timers.”

Ian considered. “Normally, I'm cautious about satellite locations, but I think your plan makes a lot of sense.”

Brent nodded. “Thank you. I considered expanding where I am, but no one's moving out, and there's no room to grow. If I'm opening a satellite location, I can go anywhere in town.”

“Do you have a new site in mind?”

“Not yet. I'd like a place right near a T stop, but I'd take anywhere with reasonable rent.”

“What's your time frame?”

“Here's what I'm thinking.” Brent put the plate of veggies between them and sat up straighter, shifting to look at Ian. “When Missy has the baby, I'm going to want to take some time off. Let's say I take a month. During that time, I'll expand my personnel. Promote Keith to acting store manager and Minsuh to acting assistant manager, then start hiring a few part-timers with all the college kids looking for summer work. Keith will be in charge of training. When I come back from paternity leave, everyone's ready to go, and I open the new site. Figure a mid-August opening right in time for the kids coming back to school.”

“That's ambitious.”

“I'm an ambitious guy.” Brent settled back again. “Well, about business. Not really about getting off this couch. You want a beer or something?”

“No, I'm good, thanks. And . . . I know of a location you should check out for your new shop.” Ian may have been disappointed about Emma's disinterest, but he wasn't an ass. Brent's new business plan might just pull Emma out of her financial slump. Despite how hurt he was by the conversation he'd overheard this morning, he still wanted to help her.

It was just a friend helping out another friend. Totally innocent.

Right?

Chapter 27

A
s soon as
Bethany dropped off her stuff in the back room for the start of her shift on Wednesday afternoon, she was at Emma's side by the register. “So what's wrong? Monday morning you were all smiles and dodging my questions, and now you look like somebody drowned your puppy.”

Emma played with a bookmark from the cup of them on the counter. “Ian hasn't called.”

“It's only been a few days.” Bethany started sorting the pile of special-ordered books on the back counter, the ones Emma had meant to organize but hadn't gotten around to yet.

“Yeah, but . . . I sort of thought we had something, you know? I shared some really personal stuff with him, and we had a great night, and then he just . . . left. No call, no text, no nothing. I'm starting to think I don't mean as much to him as I felt like I did.”

“Have you called
him
? Maybe he's sitting at home wondering why you haven't called or texted.”

Emma had considered that, but it was the principle of the situation now. “I feel like he should make the first move, since I'm the one who opened up to him.”

Bethany sighed loudly. “Near as I can tell, you two aren't winning any awards for communication. If you want this to go somewhere, you've got to learn to talk to him. For better or worse, at least you'll know where you stand.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Emma didn't have time to respond further, because the business phone rang. “Prologue,” she said.

“Hey, is this Emma?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Brent Rego. Ian's friend from high school?”

Emma felt her body run hot, then cold. “What happened? Is Ian okay?” Oh, shit, if he hadn't called because he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, and she'd been worried about not getting in touch first . . .

“What?” A pause. “No, he's fine.”

Emma was flooded with relief, a rush so strong she felt light-headed.

Brent continued, “I run D20, the comic and game shop, and I'm looking to open a satellite location elsewhere in Boston. He said you have a storefront for rent?”

A
s soon as Brent
turned the corner, Emma recognized him. He looked a lot like he had in high school: short and stocky, like a bodybuilder, a little soft now but still powerful. His blond hair was longer, shaggy around his forehead and ears, but he had a boyish look that took Emma back ten years. They said hello in front of the empty storefront where Emma had been waiting.

“God, it's been forever, hasn't it?” She looked him up and down. She was the same height as Brent now, though she'd had an inch or two on him back in high school. They'd never really been friends, per se, just acquaintances. She hadn't been friends with Ian in high school, though; aside from being his lab partner in chemistry for a few months, she'd never spent much time with him. She hadn't gotten to know his friends very well. It was surprising, then, that seeing Brent brought back a wave of memories of Catholic high school uniforms, lunches in the white-tiled cafeteria with its stark fluorescent lighting, and simpler days that had seemed so complicated at the time.

“Nine years next month.” He looked behind him. “So this is your shop.”

The idea that Ian was telling his friends about her shop made Emma feel warm. “Yeah. I own the building and both storefronts, but the business that was in here went under, and I haven't been able to get another tenant.” As soon as she said it, she winced internally. Shit, that wasn't exactly a selling point.

“I read about the rental history already, but I'd like to know the reason you think people haven't stayed. The rent you quoted over the phone was very reasonable for the location.” Brent tried to peer into the dark windows.

“I think it's the size, honestly. Here, I'll let us in.” Emma unlocked the front door and let them in, going to the back to turn on the lights. “It's not big enough for most businesses. It's about three quarters the size of Prologue. But if you're looking to open a satellite location, then it might be all right for you.” She winced again. Way to talk the place down, Emma. Clearly, she was not a very good saleswoman of anything except books.

Brent turned in a circle, surveying the space, and Emma said a silent prayer that this would work out. If she had the rental income from this space, it would be the answer to most of her financial problems. She let Brent walk into the back room, which was small but probably adequate. He came out nodding. “I think this will be fine. Are you ready to talk terms now, or would you like me to come back?”

Though Emma managed not to jump up and down, it took all her restraint. She couldn't help smiling. “We can do it right now.”

S
everal hours later,
Emma set her eight-dollar bottle of celebratory champagne on the coffee table and relaxed back on the sofa, half-full glass in hand. She'd already started recalculating her budget, numbers running through her head the moment Brent had begun signing paperwork. The money wouldn't start coming in until June 1, but she had a year lease (
a year lease!
)
and confidence in his business's future. The monthly rent more than made up for her income deficits, and she'd even be able to pay herself a reasonable salary. Furthermore, she and Brent were confident that they would have crossover customers; 2D20, the new store, wouldn't sell any books carried by Prologue and vice versa, but the gaming community boasted many heavy readers. She might need to expand her science fiction and fantasy section.

She'd already drunk nearly half of the champagne, which would have been dangerous if she had any plans of leaving the house that night, but she didn't. Now, though, she had no way to avoid calling Ian without being rude; he had sent Brent her way, and even if they were in a telephone standoff of sorts, she owed him the first step.

“Hi, Emma.” It was hard to tell if his voice sounded different because they were on cell phones or because she was a bit drunk. Did being drunk affect the way you heard or just the way you spoke? She'd have to look that up.

“Hi, Ian. How're you?”

There was a long pause. “I'm good. Emma, are you drunk?”

It definitely affected how you spoke. “Only a bit. I'm celebrating. Brent signed a lease.”

“I'm happy to hear it. I think that'll be a good situation for both of you.”

“I wanted to say thank you. I know it was because of you. That was a really sweet thing to do.” The champagne tasted slightly bitter, just the way she liked it, the bubbles tingling her nose as she drank another mouthful. “And now I have enough money to pay my bills and buy this bottle of cheap-ass champagne that I am currently drinking.” He laughed, and she wished he were right next to her, laughing where she could see. She said, “I wish you were here celebrating with me. You should come over.”

“Oh yeah?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes. But I don't have any champagne glasses.”

“So you're drinking it straight from the bottle?”

“No.” She tried to muster some indignation, though it might not have come across as clearly as she intended. “I'm drinking it from a mason jar. I'm
classy.
”

He laughed again, and maybe she was hearing wrong, but his laugh sounded . . . forced? “I see.”

“Really, you should come over. I miss you.” As the words left her mouth, she knew she should probably shut up before she said something stupid. “I wouldn't be celebrating if not for you.”

“I can't, Emma. And there's no need to thank me—I'd do the same for any of my friends.”

And there it was. They were friends, just friends, nothing more. The champagne didn't taste as good with the next swallow, settling uneasily in her stomach. Maybe she should have eaten something before opening the bottle.

“Oh.” She wasn't sure how to respond to this confirmation of her fears. “I guess I'll see you on Sunday, then.”

The pause stretched on for so long that she was starting to think he'd hung up on her. Finally, he said, “I'll see you Sunday.”

A
fter Ian hung up,
he stared at the phone. God, he wanted to go over there. He wanted to hop on the T and get out, run up the stairs, kiss the champagne from her lips, and finish the bottle with her out of mason jars. They'd end up in bed, tangled together, and none of it would mean anything to her. For him, though . . . it couldn't be meaningless. He'd fallen in love with her, and if he was going to get over it, he needed the emotional distance.

He felt tightly wound, a rubber band ready to snap. Jerking off hadn't helped; he kept seeing her face as he had seen her Saturday night, and his climaxes left him feeling shaky and guilty and just as tense as before. After the second time this had happened, he'd stopped, and he hadn't laid a hand on himself in two days.

Tossing the phone on the coffee table, Ian ran a hand over his face. He should take up another hobby. In the meantime, he would sit back and tune in to the
Alien
movie marathon, and maybe that would take him out of his own head for a while.