“Like that sorcerer?” I wondered if I was imagining the intent look in his eyes. He glanced around. “How much of the stuff in here was his?”
“Magnus Fairborn?” I chuckled. “Although I doubt that’s the name he was born with. We got a truckload. His sister wanted to get rid of everything. I don’t think she liked her brother much. There are boxes I haven’t even opened.”
“I could look through them,” Alaric volunteered.
“Sure, but you could also get these cartons of light fixtures sorted and the good stuff priced and on the shelves. Which is higher priority.”
Alaric waved at the tall industrial shelving around us, stuffed full of lights with orange price tags attached. “How can that be high priority? You have more lights already than anyone needs. I could be doing something more useful.”
“Lights sell.” I let my tone go frosty. “And new ones are constantly coming in, as you’ve found out, which means we need to try to stay on top of the inventory.” Lights were fragile, dusty, with a lower usable ratio than a lot of the categories, and unending. When I had doubts whether a new employee would stick with the job, I started them here. Not usually for a week straight, I grant you. He’d actually made inroads on the backlog. The area had never been this organized.
Alaric was a puzzle. His jeans and shirts were pricey enough that if he needed a near-minimum-wage job, the change was recent. His hands had no calluses, his dark hair had been cut by a stylist three grades above the local Fast Clips, and his sneakers didn’t show much wear. If we were a front for stolen goods or smuggling, I’d have guessed he was undercover. But the closest we got to a crime was when a drug dealer who was being chased by the cops tossed his stash into our dumpster.
So I’d had him doing light fixtures for a week now. I wasn’t sure which of us would break first. I added, “Or did you mean you want to do something more fun?”
His sudden grin shocked me. Wide, almost boyish, it took a decade off his lean, tanned face. “You caught me. Yes, please, Mr. Forrest, can Ipleasemove on from cheap brass and plated nickel to something more interesting?”
Fuck.I liked him saying“please.”Way, way too much. Still, he’d taken a step down off his high horse, so maybe it was timefor me to compromise. Not to the extent of giving him my first name, but since he was still coming in to work every day, it was time to lay off the pressure. “Sure. I’ll start showing you how to work the register and check out customers. Heck, with your face, you can probably persuade tentative buyers to give secondhand a shot.”
He blinked at me. “My face?”
Oops, don't cater to his ego.“You look knowledgeable,” I backpedaled. “Even if that’s an illusion at the moment. Come on. Wash your hands and I’ll introduce you to Gertrude.”
“Gertrude?”
“Our main computer. When she reached the venerable age of ten, we threw her a party.”
He chuckled, and that was a good look for him too, his full lips turned up, the corners of his dark eyes crinkled with amusement. “Out of warranty, huh?”
“Way out.”
We had handwash stations around the store and he cleaned up at the nearest. I didn’t watch— okay, I did— as the water ran over his long fingers and veiny forearms. He toweled his hands dry and followed me to the front of the store.
Ten minutes at the terminal showed me Alaric was a fast learner. A customer came to the desk with two cans of donated excess paint and I let him check her out. He handled the transaction just fine, but then turned to me. “What’s the usual reward for learning the register?”
I cocked my head. “I thought learning the register was the reward for working hard on the lights.”
“Nah, you have to stack rewards. Like, doing lights gets you register. Register gets you, I don’t know, lumber? And lumber gets me a chance to dig through mystery boxes. Something like that.”
“You want to do lumber?”
“Well, not specifically.”
“Good, because that’s Miranda’s baby and she’ll let us know when she needs extra hands. Otherwise, we won’t mess up her system.” Miranda was fifteen years older than me and had worked at the Three Rs for a decade more. By rights, she should’ve been the one offered the manager job, but she hadn’t wanted the responsibility. She wasn’t a people person and said her worst nightmare was spending her days telling other folks what to do.
Which was my jam, actually. Like now. “I’ll show you Venetian blinds. You’ll wish you were back in lights.”
“That doesn’t sound like a reward.” Alaric frowned, his thick brows almost meeting. That was hotter than it should’ve been, too.
I was saved from responding by a familiar truck driver coming into the store. “Hey, Robin, got a load from a teardown. Where do you want me to put stuff?”
“Hey, Jack. Let me roll up the loading bay and we’ll see what you have.” I gathered up Alaric with a tilt of my head. “Come on, time for some real work.”
I called over Sheldon and pinged Miranda on my way to the back. The bay door trundled upward with only a minor screech. Seemed like lubricating the rollers last time helped. Jack backed his truck up close, opened it, and I headed inside to check the contents. Maybe I’m weird, but I took a deep breath of the scent of old lumber and new wood dust, and the odd musty smell of antiques. This was the other fun part of my job, finding the goodies.
“Solid oak doors,” I called to Miranda. “Windows, some cabinets, hardware, a nice banister.” I ran a careful hand up the gleaming but dusty newel post and along the thick rail. Someone had kept that thing polished and there were almost no nicks in the mahogany surface.
“Let me at it.” Miranda came up behind me, looking over my shoulder from her eight-inch height advantage. “Yeah, we’ll find a taker for that. Hey, Sheldon, get your butt in here and help me with this.”
