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“Right.” Niall nodded, suddenly aware that their bubble of morning intimacy was about to burst. “Of course. You could shower here, but you need clothes and all.”

They cleared the table, elbows negotiating the same three feet of counter, and neither of them apologized once. Once the dishes were loaded and rumbling away, Chuck gathered his castoff clothes from the night before and quickly tugged them on while Niall tried not to hover.

At the front door, Chuck pulled Niall into a kiss that started gentle then deepened as they fell together, a slow sinuous build that left both breathless when they pulled back.

“Jeez.”

“Okay then, boss. That’s enough sexual harassment, I think. See you at the store once I’ve washed you off me, but only if you replace it later,” Chuck said, his voice husky. “Elevenish? My aunt’s going to grill me for sure. I plan to tell her nothing just to get her goat.” He winked and clomped away.

Niall nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched from the doorway as Chuck sauntered to his truck, admiring the loose stride, the sleep-flattened hair, the easy confidence as he slid into the cab.

Only when the pickup had vanished around the corner did Niall close his door and lean his forehead into it with a mixture of glee and guilt swirling inside him.

What in the name of everything sensible did he think he was doing right now? Getting involved with Chuck Mitchum, of all people—Candle Bay’s prodigal son, notorious for his reckless, rootless misbehavior. Like asking for heartbreak, nuking the careful, stable life he’d built for himself and Winnie.

Last night had…. Niall couldn’t even find the words. Not just for the sex, which had been far hotter and hungrier than he’d imagined—which was saying something because he’d imagined plenty—but for the uncanny ease between them, the shared laughter, the feeling they understood each other at some core level.

It was dangerous, all this unruly happiness. Like a wolf in the parlor—you knew you’d get bit but stayed to watch it prowl around.

Niall pushed away from the door. Plenty of problems needed solving, and only he could solve them—a daughter headed home, store to open, books to balance, customers to wrangle. No time for existential crises about his love life.

Or whatever he’d wandered into with Chuck. Not love. Not yet. The memory of Chuck in his bed, at his table, against the door, followed him as he showered and dressed for the familiar routine of opening up on a tourist weekend. Chuck stayed with him, hard and warm against him, as he steered a retired English professor to a Martin Chuzzlewit reprint, as he rang up a tourist’s stack of paperback bonkbusters, as he counted out change and smiled at Mrs. Maybrick, who came in every Saturday for a Regency romance she’d read to her mom at the hospice.

When the bell over the door jingled around eleven, Niall looked up too quickly to feel sensible.

Unfortunately, instead of Chuck, it was Gavin who burst through the door in a sailor’s dress coat with three columns of buttons, lugging a cardboard box overflowing with fabric scraps, paper, and what appeared to be miniature ship rigging.

“Don’t just stand there looking disappointed.” Gavin plopped the box on the counter with a thud. “I saw that face. You were expecting someone else. Someone who probably has way bigger biceps than me and makes you blush and coo like a Disney Princess.”

“I don’t—” Niall started, then gave up at his knowing look. “Fine. I thought you might be Chuck.”

“Mmm, I bet you did.” Gavin’s eyes narrowed with gleeful suspicion as he undid the brass uniform buttons. “And why would you be so primed to see our resident bad boy on this fine Saturday morning? Could it be someone in this literary establishment got some proper man action after the six-year drought?”

Niall’s face heated up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, bro, your face says everything.” Gavin leaned across the counter and dropped his voice. “You have that freshly laid glow. Not to mention a hickey peeking out from under your collar.”

Niall’s hand flew to his neck. “I do not!”

“Nope, but that flinch confirmed all my greasy suspicions. Do tell.” Gavin fake-gasped and cackled. “You got nekkid with him. Niall Ashworth, you dirty dark-horse dick magnet. I want all the invidious details.”

“There are no details,” Niall insisted as he felt his blush deepening. He stared at the glass-domed clock, willing the time to pass faster. “Even if there were, I wouldn’t share them with you.”

“Fine, be that way. But at least tell me if he’s as athletic as I imagine. For science.”

Niall rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “Don’t you have a window display to work on?”

“Yes, but your adult-onset sluttiness is much more entertaining.” Gavin started unpacking his box. “By the by, I ran into him at the hardware store. He was buying lumber, looking much too happy for a man loading two-by-fours at eight a.m. on a Saturday.”

Niall busied himself with straightening a stack of bookmarks, trying to appear unaffected. “He’s building a treehouse for Winnie. Well, more of a tree and a house, but inside the actual store. There.” He pointed at the dim corner.

“A treehouse,” Gavin repeated, pausing with a length of blue fabric in his hands. “In the store? That’s… actually brilliant. And disgustingly sweet. Is there anything this man can’t do?”

“Stay put,” Niall said before he could stop himself, the words carrying more weight than he’d intended.

Gavin pointed at him. “Ah. That’s what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”