With a resigned sigh, I turn around and head back toward the cozy reads section, planning to return the books to their proper spots before I get too attached.
Too late. Already attached. These are my book children and I'm a terrible mother for abandoning them.
I'm so focused on my internal melodrama that I don't see the person until I've already crashed into them.
The books go flying. My phone nearly follows. I stumble backward with a very attractive yelp of surprise, and suddenly there are hands—large, warm hands—steadying me by the shoulders.
And then the scent hits me.
Oh.
Oh no.
It's like walking into a bakery on a cold morning—warm maple wood and golden honey, with an undertone of something earthy and grounding like hay that's been dusted with snow. There's ginger too, spicy and sweet at the same time, like fresh-baked cookies cooling on a rack.
The scent wraps around me like a blanket, comforting and delicious and so distinctlyAlphathat my brain short-circuits for a second.
This is what home smells like?
Or…safety smells like. This is heavenly…I think?—
Reverie.
Focus.
You literally just assaulted this man with your entire body.
Apologize.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I blurt out, my face immediately flooding with heat. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I was having an existential crisis about book budgets, and I just?—"
I finally look up.
And immediately forget how words work.
Damn, it's rare to see a handsome yet soft-toned Alpha.
The man standing in front of me is tall—not overwhelmingly so, but enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Those eyes are warm, a soft golden-brown that matches the honey notes in his scent, and they're crinkled slightly at the corners like he smiles a lot. His hair is sandy blonde with hints of ash brown, slightly tousled in a way that looks effortlessly perfect.
But it's the overall aesthetic that really gets me.
He's masculine—broad shoulders, strong jaw, the kind of build that suggests he does actual physical labor—but there's something soft about him too. His skin is perfect, smooth and golden like he spends time in the sun but also takes care of himself. He's wearing a cream-colored cable-knit sweater that looks impossibly cozy and dark jeans that fit just right, and there's a flannel shirt tied around his waist because apparently he walked out of a cozy romance novel and into this bookshop.
He looks like a popstar who decided to become a rancher. Or a rancher decided to moonlight as a popstar.
Either way, it's working for him.
"Don't worry about it," he says, and his voice matches his scent—warm and smooth with a hint of something sweet underneath.
He bends down to pick up the books I dropped, and I notice his hands. They're calloused but clean, the hands of someone who works hard but takes pride in the details.
He straightens up, holding the three books, and glances at the covers with genuine interest.
"These weren't to your liking?"
Oh, he thinks I'm returning them because they're bad. That's actually adorable.
