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“I’ll pass, thanks. Our books are arranged alphabetically by category and author. Thousands of libraries and Melvil Dewey can’t be wrong.”

Celeste sighed and flapped her arms like a flightless bird. “That’s why you’re struggling, Niall. You’re stuck in the past. All that awful history. Books are like tar pits for ancestral chi. They need to be arranged to maximize their quantum reiki potential.”

From behind the Fantasy Paperback section came a muffled snort. Chuck Mitchum, grease-stained and giggling, appeared to have found his way from small engine repair to sword and sorcery.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Niall said. “Was there a book you were looking for today?”

“Now you mention it, I’m looking for space for my workshop series. ‘Unleashing Your Inner Prosperity Dragon.’ The town council seems completely overwhelmed with their ridiculous Shakespeare mess again.”

“Shakespeare in the Parking Lot is not ridiculous.” Niall frowned. “The Festival still brings a ton of customers into town for August. It’s a real blessing for local business.”

“I’m a local business, and it doesn’t bless me, that’s for sure.”

“Stores, I mean. Our foot traffic triples in August.”

She sniffed, as if miffed he wasn’t eager to hand over wads of cash. “The annual medley. The Paper Bag Players trot out the same scenes every year. Is it still Shakespeare if they never do a play?”

“Winnie’s playing Mustardseed again this year in the Midsummer bits. That show’s not till the summer, but they love her.”

“How wonderful for Winnie,” Celeste managed. “Such a creative little muffin.” Thank God the “muffin” in question wasn’t around to hear that one. “Must get it from her mother, of course. You’ve never shown a scrap of talent in that direction.”

Niall’s jaw tightened. Six years since Elise had left, and people still found ways to rub his face in the divorce. “I’m afraid I don’t have space for workshops here, Celeste. Insurance doesn’t cover it.”

“Insurance is just fear dressed in paperwork.” She was already drifting toward the door in a fog of kombucha-menthol disappointment. “Think about the feng shui. Your prosperity dragon is practically a tapeworm with heartburn at this point.”

The bell jingled again as she left, and Niall exhaled. When he raised his gaze, Chuck Mitchum was standing in front of the counter, a battered copy of Small Engine Repair for Dummies in his hand.

“Fan of yours?” Chuck’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Celeste is Candle Bay’s resident… self-help entrepreneur,” Niall offered.

Chuck leaned to check out the display table. “Uhh, I think she stole a really big cookbook. She stole something, anyway.”

Niall shrugged. “She always does.”

“You knew?”

“It’s sort of a standing joke with all the businesses on this block.” He glanced out the window at the bakery and the model shop opposite, visible through the windows. “I don’t think she believes she’s visited a person unless she swipes something on the way out. I once saw her steal a sliced pie from a wake. Plus a fork.”

“A setup.” Chuck laughed, and his eyes flashed. “You planted the cookbook.”

“Guilty.” Niall raised both hands. “I have to. I usually put out something I know won’t sell, leave it at matron-grab level. The Gilmore Girls Nibbles Bible was today’s. She doesn’t even read. From what I can tell, she drops them off at the book swaps around town. Cheaper than shipping.”

Chuck’s lips curved. “So she’s recycling dead stock for you.”

“Yuh. It’s easier than hiring her. Poor thing. She calls herself a ‘party planner’ now, but she’s been trying to get me to invest in one scheme or the other since I took over this place.”

Chuck nodded, flipping through the pages of his repair manual like he was looking for something. “Never a dull moment.”

Niall grinned. “Not in Candle Bay.”

Chuck put two more books on the counter—a creased 1960s manual for tractor motors and a barbarian saga with a racy loincloth cover—Clonans, fans used to call these… clones of Conan. Before Niall managed to come up with a flirty crack about swords or bulges, Chuck asked, “You been here long?”

“Seven years. My uncle Wally ran it before that. Back when we were in school.” Niall didn’t need to remind him they’d been classmates, but he did it anyway.

Chuck didn’t bite. Instead, he looked around, taking in the shop with new interest. “Cool space. Could use some TLC, though.”

That got a dry laugh out of Niall. “A polite way of putting it,” he admitted. “It needs a miracle.”