Mistletoe_Reader:Rhett Jennings. What do you know about Booktok?
I chuckle out loud.
RedBarnRhett:Do you know how many videos my sister has sent to me with that one lumberjack guy? So many that now half of my For You Page is filled with all sorts of Booktok shenanigans.
Tell me you’re not looking for a masked hero, though.
Biker? I could handle that. I’d go out and buy a Harley right now and learn how to ride.
Just please don’t ask me to wear a mask. Not yucking anyone’s yum, but masks give me PTSD.
I hit send, lean back against the counter, and wait for those three little dots to pop up.
When nothing appears, my stomach does a slow, confused twist.
Okay.
She’s probably busy.
Library things. Patrons. Book carts. Whatever happens in a library this time of day.
I scratch Reba behind the ears, pretending to look casual, like I’m not checking my phone every five seconds.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
Nothing.
Reba meows and bats at my hand, annoyed I stopped paying attention to her.
“Yeah, yeah. Join the club,” I mutter under my breath.
I glance at my message again.
Please don’t ask me to wear a mask. Not yucking anyone’s yum. Masks give me PTSD.
Was that too much?
Too weird?
Should I have just stuck to the “I’ll buy a Harley” joke and left it at that?
I scrub a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard.
What if the “sexiest damn woman in Mistletoe Bay” line was too forward?
What if I misread the tone and she’s sitting at her desk right now, totally mortified that I called her sexy?
God. Why am I so awful and awkward?
I have never had this problem before.
The bell over the door rings, and a customer comes in for a pack of sandpaper. I help him, then ring him up, answering a question about stain colors.
But every thirty seconds, my eyes flick down to my phone.
