You don’t need a Frenchman or fiction’s art,
Your passion’s the fire, the butterflies, the spark.
THREE
february
PENELOPE
Every yearsince I started working atEver AfterI get most excited for our Galentine’s Day event. Planning a theme, working on decorations, and getting customers excited about the event— there’s nothing I don’t love about the process.
Except for this year. Despite my begging and pleading to let me run it solo, Gloria put me and Dominic in charge of planning and running the event.
“Gloria, please! This event requires passion and patience. Two things seemingly missing in your nephew’s core attributes.”
“Oh, Penny.” She waved off my concerns. “He just needs something to focus on.” And that was that.
When the day of the event arrives, I’m slightly on edge. Okay, that might be putting it lightly. Dominic did a lot of the heavy lifting for the event, literally speaking— he moved the display tables around and brought in chairs to place throughout the store. I’m in the break room, putting cookies on platters, counting out plastic flutes and napkins. “Pages & Prosecco” is the theme of the event— basically, invite guests in for a glass of wine, encouraging them to browse and socialize.
Naturally, despite the fact that we’re deep into winter, I am sweating. Using the flattened, empty box from the plastic flutes I fan myself while mentally calculating how many customers we can host during the event and if the supplies I bought will cover it. No matter how many events I’ve planned at the store, I always experience pre-event jitters.
“Are you okay?” Dominic asks, coming out of the storage room with our small, square table.
“I’m fine,” I lie, sweat beading on my brow, clearly exposing me. “Where are you going with that?”
Dominic sets the table down and puts his hands on his hips, a judgy look on his devastatingly handsome face. He recently cut his hair, trimmed so the waves are gone. And somehow, he has the audacity to look even hotter like this. “You don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat. He gives me a look, so eerily similar to the ones Gloria’s given me. “Chloe had me going hard at the gym yesterday,” I confess. “Have to work hard to enjoy all of this, right?” I explain, gesturing to the platters of cookies and the empty plastic flutes. His brows furrow at my words. “What?”
“You shouldn’t think that way,” he says, like it’s easy.
“Ha. Right. Look at you,” I say, fanning myself even harder. “You’re… well, you’re…” The words escape me, because at this rate, I’ll end up inflating his ego and that isn’t something I’m ready to admit. Not even to myself.
Dominic takes deliberate, measured steps toward me until he stands directly in front of me, his tall frame casting a shadow over my smaller one. As he draws nearer, I’m enveloped in a familiar scent that could never be bottled— only his own. It’s a heady combination of leather and old books that sends shivers down my spine. I can’t help but lean in closer, breathing in the intoxicating scent that seems to encompass all that he is.
My heart pounds in my chest as he reaches his hand toward me, bending down closer and closer… until he plucks a cookiefrom the platter on the table beside me. Raising it to his mouth, he smirks. “Life’s too short to deny ourselves sweet things, Pea.”
He backs away, demolishing that cookie in two giant bites. When he’s finished, he licks his lips and I swear he’s doing this to tease me. I’m already sweating and now I feel a tingle in my core. Damn him.
“Where are you taking that table?” Desperate to redirect the conversation, I repeat my question from earlier.
“You said you wanted it near the register, to place the cookies on. Or did I misunderstand?”
“No, that’s perfect. Thank you!” Whirling away from him, I push through the door to the storage room and head directly for the back door that leads to the alley. Bursting through it, I take a deep breath, gulping down the frigid Midwest air like it’s my lifeline.
What the hell was that? That moment with Dominic and the cookie and the closeness and… my childhood nickname? Hell, I had completely forgotten how he called me that after learning my middle name. Butterflies tumble around my stomach and I lean against the brick wall, my foot kicked out to keep the door propped open.
Butterflies.
Your passion’s the fire, the butterflies, the spark.
I’m reminded of the mysterious note left in my locker a few weeks ago. Obviously Dominic had left it for me, but he never brought it up. And since I was unable to find a way to bring it up without sounding awkward as hell, I just let it go. Now, with the butterflies swirling in my stomach, I close my eyes and allow myself to wonder if…
“No!” I shout the word into the empty alley, thankful no one is around to witness my delusional interaction with myself. “No, you will not wonder. You will not wish. You will not romanticize something that is. Not. There.”
It’s easy to do, especially working in a romance book store and reading an endless number of books featuring swoon-worthy fictional boyfriends. Sure, Dominic could easily physically match the description of any number of book boyfriends. And yeah, we have some sort of unique and interesting history together. But that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Get your shit together.” Shaking my head, and now shivering in the sub-zero temperature outside, I slip back into the storage room and hype myself up for a successful event.
