Why, yes, this is another request from Tumblr. Because I'm a sucker and I like to make you guys happy.

Emma loves her little shop, in spite of its cramped space and overflowing shelves. She's never thought a bookstore should be neat and organized, too much like a library. No, she prefers the books scatter themselves across the shelves, free to be wherever the last person who picked them up put them down.

They're used books, after all. It's not like they're shiny and new to the world – no, they've been loved (or hated) and cast aside before landing on her shelves, waiting for a new home.

There's a comment about her life there, but she chooses to ignore it.

Besides, it's not like the used books are the only things she sells. She also makes journals, hand-stitched together with embossed leather in whatever color she manages to find on clearance. It's resulted in a fairly rainbow-like display, but it makes for a cheerful shop window. Sometimes she'll look up in the middle of the day to see someone's child pressed against the glass, staring at all the colors, and it makes her smile in return.

The journals are also her main source of income – the tourists in the seaside town gobble them up.

She's coming back from picking up lunch one day at Granny's when she notices the vacant store front across the street is vacant no more. It's too early to tell what it's going to be, but a new business is definitely going in. Emma cheers mentally – more business in the area means more potential customers walking by her shop. She'll never be upset about that.

Except when the Jolly Roger finally opens, it's another goddamn bookstore – but not used books and crafty, personalized journals. No, it's one of those bright, shiny and new shops, complete with a fancy espresso machine to serve up browsing customers their caffeinated beverage of choice.

She hopes it won't make a difference – the people who buy new books are not necessarily the same sorts who come into her store. She pokes her head in to check the place, meets the obnoxious proprietor, and mentally assures herself his bookstore isn't going to interfere with hers.

But then some giggling, silly teenager comes out of his shop with a mocha latte something another and into hers – and spills the drink all over the journal display, ruining several of them. And that is when Emma loses her temper.

"You owe me two hundred dollars," she announces, dumping the ruined journals onto the counter in front of the cocky bastard. She's run into him plenty – they open and close at about the same time – and each encounter has left her feeling less impressed than the last.

He raises one eyebrow at her, his shockingly blue eyes bordering on amused, and that just makes her blood boil. "Darling, I didn't order any of these," he finally says, prodding one of the sodden journals with his index finger. "And if I had, I'd prefer mine without the coffee stains."

"Yeah, so would I. One of your customers came into my shop and spilled whatever stupid drink you made her all over my display! These are ruined. Pay up." Emma is seething. All she wants to do is throw the journals in his face, hit him over the head with them, anything to make that smug smirk disappear.

"I see. You would like me to reimburse you for the cost of you not monitoring a customer in your shop."

"She wouldn't have had the damn coffee if it wasn't for you."

"Look, Swan – it's Swan, isn't it? I am not the only purveyor of coffee in town. You can hardly blame me. Charge the girl." He shrugs, folding his arms over his chest, but the glint returns to his eyes as he regards her. "May I offer you a coffee?" he asks, overly innocent, and she can tell just by the way he smirks he says it just to rile her.

"I don't even drink coffee!" She throws up her hands, daggers in her eyes as she turns away from him. "Keep your goddamn coffee people out of my store!" she calls over her shoulder, stomping out.

Within the hour, she's taped a sign to her door – no beverages allowed.

She's struggling to open the door a few days later (the key sticks sometimes, and of course today it's sticking while she's got her hot chocolate in her other hand with a bag of breakfast from Granny's) when she hears him from across the street.

"Need a hand, love?" His voice is laughing at her again, and she's already frustrated with the door and the morning, and she does not need this.

"Go to hell, Jones!" she snaps over her shoulder, turning her attention back to the door. Maybe if she gives it a good, swift kick, it will obey.

Maybe she could give him a good swift kick.

"Afraid I've been and am not much a fan." He's too close, his words practically in her ear, and she turns to find him beside her, that stupid smirk on his face once more. "May I?"

She's too tired to argue, so she just leaves the key in the lock and steps back, sipping slowly from her hot chocolate to give her something to do other than argue with him. He seems to enjoy it, these little verbal spars they keep getting into – she doesn't.

Though she does enjoy listening to him curse as he fiddles with the stubborn lock. "Not quite so easy, is it?" she can't help but taunt. It's her turn to smirk back at him when he turns to glare (smolder) at her.

Of course, the moment she says something is the moment the damn lock gives, and the door opens easily. "You were saying, love?"

"You got lucky." She rolls her eyes, moving around him into the shop with a muttered thanks. He follows her in, uninvited.

"Thought you didn't drink coffee."

"It's not coffee."

"No beverages allowed?" He eyes her hot chocolate, which she's set down carefully on the counter beside her keys.

"It's my store. I hardly think I need to worry I'm going to be the one to ruin merchandise."

He shrugs, his elbows planted on the counter as he watches her with interest, pulling her newest leather acquisitions out of her bag. If it's a quiet day, she's planning to cut the material, maybe emboss some of it.

"Don't you have your own store to open?" she snaps when it becomes clear he has no intention of budging from his spot.

"Aye, lass, I suppose I do." There's an odd note in his voice, but by the time she convinces herself to look at him, he's halfway across the street.

He knocks on the door an hour past closing, and Emma is of half a mind to ignore him. She's sitting behind the counter, carefully stitching together her latest creation, and wishes she had gone in the back when she sees him outside the door.

Closed she mouths at him, pointing to the sign. He frowns, holding up a bag filled with god knows what, and she can hear him through the glass when he protests, "Be reasonable, Swan. Not here to shop."

"What do you want?" she demands when she opens the door, baring his entrance with a suspicious glare.

He sighs, scratching behind his ear before he meets her gaze. "I thought perhaps I could fix the lock for you. I've a knack for these things."

"Oh," she says stupidly, her face flushing with embarrassment. He came over to help her and she's being a great big bitch about it.

"Planning on letting me in, love? Or do you prefer doing battle with your door?"

It earns him the ghost of a smile, and she backs into the shop to let him pass. The bag clinks with metal, and she's still a bit suspicious, but he's at least trying to be friendly. "These old locks stick when they begin to corrode. I believe I can resolve the issue for you." He grins, pulling a screwdriver out of the bag and turning back to the door. "Perhaps then you'll stop scowling at me."

"I do not scowl."

"You most certainly do, love." He chuckles, and it makes her blood boil that he's always poking at her, teasing like they're friends, like he someone knows her and is entitled to it.

"Whatever. You break that lock and you're buying me a new one."

"Fair deal. And if I fix the lock, you'll have dinner with me."

She's too stunned to do anything other than stare at him, a flush creeping into her cheeks once again. "Dinner?" she repeats, watching as he effortlessly pulls the lock free from the door.

"Aye, dinner, the meal two people may sometimes have occasion to share."

"Like a date?"

He sets the lock down on her counter, studying it for a moment before he turns his eyes on her. "Aye, a date," he finally says, but these words aren't like the others – they aren't brimming with bravado. He's softer, and for a fraction of a second, she thinks she can see a flicker of doubt in his eyes before he reassumes his smirk.

"I…"

"What's the matter, Swan? You said I owed you for your ruined journals. Let me back you back with a nice meal and my company."

"Because your company is worth so much to me."

He shrugs, but he doesn't say anything else, tinkering with the lock. She watches for a few minutes before returning to her careful stitching – the journal isn't going to finish itself, and hell if she's going to let him come in here and completely disrupt her night.

The silence they fall into isn't exactly easy, but it's not so bad. Emma glances up periodically from her work to find him bent over the bits of metal, muttering to himself with furrowed brows.

She's just putting the last stitches into the binding when she hears his whoop of triumph from the door. "I believe you owe me dinner, Swan!" he calls to her, gesturing to the lock as though he's presenting her with the crown jewels.

"I never agreed to that," she replies, but there's no bite to the words. She fishes her key out of her pocket, stepping outside with him to test the lock.

And damn if the key doesn't turn smooth as butter no matter how many times she tries it.

She regards him out of the corner of her eye, weighing her choices. What does she really have to lose? She already finds him irritating and full of himself. Is an hour and a free meal going to change that?

"Fine," she says with a sigh, opening the door to her shop once more. "I'll have dinner with you."

"Excellent. I'll drive. I've seen your car."

"What, now?"

"Do you have somewhere else to be?"

She opens her mouth to tell him yes she does, thank you very little. But it's a lie. And he's just fixed the lock on her door. So with another sigh, she admits that no, she has nowhere to be.

"I thought you said nice meal," she comments with a raised brow as he pulls into the parking lot of the local fry shack, the warm night drawing a line of tourists for lobster rolls and clam chowder beside the marina.

"Have a bit of faith, Swan."

She regards him suspiciously as they get in line, but he simply grins at her while they regard the menu. He's up to something – she can tell, but damn if she can figure out what it is.

It's only once they've gotten their food and she starts to walk toward one of the picnic tables that he stops her, gently guiding her toward the path to the marina. "I did say nice."

"So…we're going to sit on the dock?"

He simply shakes his head at her, the smirk returning. And she shortly discovers why when he stops in front of a small sailboat, gesturing to it. "Dinner on deck counts as nice, yeah?"

"This is yours?"

"Aye." His smile turns from smug to proud, and he takes the food in her hands before nudging her toward the boat. "Go on."

"You're not going to take me out on the water and dump my body in the harbor, are you?"

"Try a little bit of trust, love."

She rolls her eyes at him, but once they're settled on the deck, complete with cold beer he's produced from below, she has to admit it is all rather nice. A summer night in Maine with fresh seafood and the water…this is why she moved here.

She also has to admit that actually talking to him, that's nice too. He still makes his little comments here and there, but he relaxes on the boat, and she sees a side of him she suspects not a lot of people do – quiet and easy.

"Shall I bring you back to your car?" he asks as the hour grows late, the wind rising from the water and making them both shiver. She waits for the other offer – the one to step below deck with him and stay awhile, but it never comes, so she smiles and nods.

He gets out of the car with her when they arrive back in front of their stores, and she's surprised to find him almost nervous as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Thank you for the pleasure of your company this evening, Swan."

"Thank you for fixing the lock."

He nods, his eyes skittering over her face as he glances around them before he finally faces her head on. "Have you anything else that needs repairing I may be able to exchange for another evening?" He's so hopeful, no trace of his usual smirk, that she can't help but smile back.

"Yes, Killian, I'd like to go on another date with you," she replies, stepping closer and letting her hand fall on his chest, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. "No need to make an excuse next time. Just ask."

"Would you like to come out on the boat with me on Sunday? It's supposed to be a lovely…"

"Yes," she answers before he can finish, and it's her turn to smirk playfully at his somewhat surprised expression. "But there had better not be any coffee."

"Aye, no coffee. Just hot chocolate. And you, Emma." The last part comes out as a whisper, and she can tell he's going to kiss her, and maybe she should back away, but she doesn't particularly want to.

The first brush of his lips is tentative, but she responds instantly, and then he's got her wrapped in his arms, and she's never had a goodnight kiss quite like this one – tenderness and passion all wrapped up in one.

He releases her slowly, almost regretfully, pure happiness in his expression as he pushes her hair back behind her ear, bending to press a final kiss to her forehead. "I shall look forward to Sunday, love. See you in the morning."

She nods, reluctantly releasing her grasp on him. She watches him get in his car and drive away, a tiny smile playing on her lips. The shop opening across the street was always supposed to be good for business, but she hadn't counted on it being good for her.

And as she goes inside to grab her car keys and straighten out her workspace, she can't help but admit to herself that Killian Jones, owner of neat shelves and fancy coffee, smug smirks and lecherous gazes, is very good for her.