CHAPTER ONE
OPAL
I tug the striped black and gray knit sweater over my head. The dark green pencil skirt hugs over my wide hips. Polished enough to make me look like I didn’t just roll out of bed. I slide on my black tights and chunky boots completing my usual look.
The cats circle my ankles, meowing, and I dump kibble into their bowls without looking. I’m still half lost in the world of the book I stayed up too late reading. I couldn’t put it down—the enemies were just becoming lovers and thingswere heating up. I always lose track of time when lost in a good dark romance.
Keys in hand, I lock the apartment door, cursing softly. Running late. I look at my phone screen and it reads 7:50 am. Ten minutes to get to work.
My boots crunch against the sidewalk as I start my walk to the bookstore, the quiet town slowly waking around me. Leaves skitter across the pavement and my tummy rumbles in response to the smells of breakfast filling the air.
I may be running late, but I’m never too late for coffee.
The Toasted Bean welcomes me in warmth as I step inside. The scent of cinnamon, pumpkin, and caramel hits me like a hug, leaving my mouth watering.
I slide up to the counter and order a pumpkin spice latte and a turkey sausage croissant. The barista grins and takes my money.
Latte in one hand, croissant wrapped in paper in the other, I take a slow sip. The foam coats my tongue in sweet nutmeg heaven.
The bell above the door jingles as I push into Nook & Fable, the cozy little bookstore smelling of paper, leather, and a hint of vanilla.
“Late again, Opal?” Mrs. Mable’s voice carries from behind the front desk. I offer her a sheepish smile, dropping my bag behind the counter.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mable. I…couldn’t sleep last night.”
She raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in her bright green eyes. “Next time bring me a coffee too.”
I laugh, the tension from my rushed morning easing slightly. “Deal,” I say.
I wander down the aisles, watering the small potted plants perched on windowsills and shelves. I light the candles positioned in thecenter of the tables, filling the space with a hint of sweet pumpkin.
Books need stocking too, of course. I straighten a few titles on the shelves, aligning them perfectly. One cover catches my attention.The Beast Who Owns Me.
A monster romance—just the sort of darkly alluring tropes I can’t resist. I flip it over in my hands, reading the synopsis, and make a note to add it to my TBR pile. There’s something about dark, dangerous love that keeps my pulse a little higher than it should.
Mrs. Mable appears at the end of the aisle; cardigan draped over her shoulders and purse in hand. She tucks a lose strand of her grey hair behind her ear. “I’m heading out for the day, dear. Alex called in sick, so it looks like you’ll be holding the fort on your own.”
I give her a nervous nod.
She returns a reassuring smile. “Call me if you need anything.”
Alone in the bookshop on a crisp October day sounds peaceful in theory—until the midday rush comes pouring in. The bell above the door jingles as she leaves, and just like that it's just me and the books.
I grab a copy ofThe Beast Who Owns Mefrom the shelf and head to the front of the store. I slide behind the counter, book in hand, and sink into the chair. Just a few pages I tell myself. Just a peek.
I find myself instantly hooked. The book wastes no time. Within the first few chapters claws and teeth are dragging across soft skin. I feel that familiar knot tightening low in my belly. My thighs heat and my breath stutters, I can feel my cheeks redden.
God, I really shouldn’t be reading this at work. But it’s just so tempting. And I’m all alone anyhow.
It’s only when a shift in the air draws my eyes upward that I realize that is false.
I straighten in my chair, snapping the book closed like I’ve been caught doing something indecent. The man standing in the romantasy section is huge—broad shoulders stretching the seams of his white shirt, dark jeans hugging muscular thighs.
His backwards hat should look casual, or boyish, but it only adds to the rugged, bad-boy sexiness he radiates without trying.
Dark facial hair shadows a sharp jaw, and when he tilts his head to study the spines on the shelf, I catch a glimpse of hazel eyes. Waves of honey brown hair peeks from the front of his hat and dances across sun tanned skin. He fills the aisle like the shop has suddenly shrunk.
And here I am, cheeks burning, hiding monster smut like its contraband while he shops for his wife, probably. A man like that—rugged, broad, is too handsome to not have someone waiting at home. Someone pretty, polished, the kind of woman who wouldn’t be caught dead with ink-stained fingers and a half-eatencroissant in her purse. She’s probably dainty and blonde—the opposite of me.
