The good news, however, is I’ve got a small circle of fellow book influencers who’ve been incredible—sharing posts, hyping the shop, helping me spread the word. That kind of support makes all the difference.
With the morning light filtering through the leaves of the tree above me, I sit with my legs crossed at the ankles, gently swaying back and forth with the breeze. The pages of my book flutter against my fingers as I try to hold them down. I’m completely caught up in this story. A sweet human girl falls for a cruel fae prince with a dark past and an even darker heart. Naturally, it begins with loathing—sharp and mutual. But, of course, slowly, inevitably, they unravel. He becomes the only one she can turn to, and she’s the only one who can reach him.
I love that kind of dynamic, when the unapproachable one softens, but only for her. It’s messy and tender and full of tension, and it always gets me.
I’m so absorbed in the story, the slow burn, the tension, the way they are beginning to come undone, that the sudden sound of a throat clearing behind me jolts me out of the moment.
I gasp, the book slipping from my hands as I lose my balance and tip backward off the swing. Everything slows, my hair lifts in the breeze and the world begins to tilt. But impossibly, I don’t hit the ground. Strong arms catch me, steady and sure, and I’m pulled against a chest. The scent hits me first: warm, familiar, a little wild.
And then his voice, low and close to my ear.
“I’ve got you.”
Ford’s words brush the side of my face, the rough edge of his jaw grazing my cheek as he lifts me gently, guiding me back onto the swing. His hands are firm but tender, his presence wrapped around me like a shield.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his voice deliciously deep and gravelly, still behind me, his chest pressed to my back. “You looked so lost in that book. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I turn my head to look at him. He’s wearing his cap backwards, as usual, curls spilling out beneath it, and I feel heat spreading to my face as I ask, “How long have you been standing there?”
He hesitates, just for a beat, a sliver of embarrassment in his eyes, then gives a small, sheepish smile.
“A little while,” he admits. “I like watching you read.”
Something in me stirs at that. The way he says it, like it’s hidden secret he’s been guarding. But then his expression shifts, confidence blooming in the curve of his mouth. He reaches forward, and his fingers brush lightly against my shoulder as he tucks a strand of hair behind it, clearing the view to my face.
“I was passing by, and I wanted to see you,” he says, his voice low, earnest.
He runs his fingertips over my cheek with a touch so gentle it makes my breath catch.
“You get this little dimple right here when you read,” he murmurs, tracing the spot with his thumb. Then his touch drifts, slow and intentional, to the corner of my mouth.
“And this curve,” he adds, his thumb brushing the soft edge of my lips, “when you find something funny … or maybe something you love.”
I’m burning now, breathless, heat blooming across my skin, my heart thudding like it’s trying to reach him. He’s still behind me, his chest warm against my back, but his hand moves with quiet certainty to my chin, tilting my face gently toward him.
His face is all stubble and sun-kissed skin, rugged and real, and I can’t look away. The intensity in his eyes, the way he holds me like I’m something precious. It’s tempting in a way that makes my thoughts spin out of focus.
I open my mouth to speak—to say something, anything. But he leans in and kisses me before the words can form. Sweet at first, then deeper, hungrier. His lips steal the breath from mine, and I let him take it, let myself fall into the moment.
I melt into it, into him, my fingers curling around the edge of the swing for balance, though it’s his touch that steadies me.
And in my mind, somewhere between the fluttering pages of the book on the ground and the fae prince I was just reading about, I think: This is better. Better than fiction. Better than the slow-burn tension I crave in stories. Because this is real. And he’s kissing me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at me with his thumb still resting at the corner of my mouth, his gaze is soft but intense.
“You look beautiful when you read,” he murmurs quietly. “Completely lost in it. Like the world could fall apart around you and you wouldn’t even notice.”
I laugh, breathless and flushed, trying to gather myself.
“So, you’ve been spying on me, is that it?”
He grins, unbothered, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Observing. Admiring. Same thing.”
I arch a brow, trying to summon some sass despite the way my heart’s still racing.
“You know, most people would just say hi instead of lurking against a tree like some kind of Peeping Tom.”
His chest rumbles, the sound low and wicked.
