I laugh, and it comes out a little breathless because apparently my body has decided we're doing the whole 'flustered Omega' thing.
"Oh, no! They're amazing. I literally just spent twenty minutes on TikTok Live telling everyone to read them. I just—" I make a vague gesture that's supposed to convey 'financial instability' but probably just looks like I'm having a small seizure. "I don't have book money like that yet. But I'm manifesting it."
I wink at him, trying to reclaim some semblance of composure, and then take the books from his hands.
Our fingers brush, and there's this little spark of something that makes my breath catch.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not going there.
This is a stranger in a bookshop, not a meet-cute from the cafe story I literally just invented five minutes ago.
"These are my top three recommendations," I tell him, holding up the stack with renewed enthusiasm. "And I'm totally going to read them eventually, so you should too. Consider it a professional opinion from someone who definitely knows what she's talking about."
He smiles, and it's devastating.
Soft and genuine and a little amused, like I've just said something unexpectedly charming.
I'm in danger. This is dangerous. Abort mission.
"I'll take your word for it," he says.
"Good! You should!" I'm backing away slowly, trying to make a graceful exit before I do something embarrassing like ask him if he wants to smell my hair or tell him about my cafe story idea. "Also, make sure you go to Hazel's cafe on Maple Street and try the new holiday menu. The gingerbread latte is life-changing. I'm not even exaggerating—it's like drinking Christmas."
Why am I promoting Hazel's cafe? I don't know.
My brain is malfunctioning.
Maple-scented Alphas are apparently my kryptonite.
"What's your name?" he asks, and there's something in his expression—curiosity mixed with genuine interest—that makes my heart do a little flip.
I spin around dramatically, my skirt flaring out in a way that definitely looks intentional and not at all like I'm fleeing the scene of a crime.
"Reverie!" I call over my shoulder, grinning. "I'm on TikTok sometimes. You know, if you're into chaotic book content and aggressive positivity."
I don't wait for his response.
I just giggle—actually giggle, like I'm twelve years old with a crush—and spin away again, letting my skirt twirl one more time because apparently I'm committed to this theatrical exit.
I practically run to the staff room, clutching the books to my chest, my face burning.
What was that?
What just happened?
Why is my heart racing like I just ran a marathon?
Why do I want to go back and ask him literally everything about his life?
The staff room is blessedly empty when I burst through the door. It's a small space—just a table with mismatched chairs,a mini fridge, a coffee maker that's seen better days, and a microwave that only works if you hit it at exactly the right angle.
But right now, it feels like a sanctuary.
The scent of sugar cookies hits me immediately, sweet and buttery and perfect. Miss Bea has left them on a plate in the center of the table, still warm, sprinkled with colored sugar that catches the light.
Okay. Focus on the cookies. Cookies are safe. Cookies don't make your heart race or your palms sweat or your brain turn into static.
I dump the books on the table—I'll deal with returning them later when I'm not having whatever this is—and grab a sugar cookie.
