“Psh,” Grace groans, “you’re just here agreeing and you probably haven’t read the series.”
“He has!” Pen calls from across the store. Glancing her way, I see she’s on one of the rolling ladders, rearranging some of the books on our overstock shelves. She balances precariouslyon one of the top rungs of the ladder, reaching up to shift some books on the shelves to make room. She’s wearing a black skirt with shiny tights underneath and the way she reaches up, her skirt rides up just enough for my imagination to go wild.
Averting my gaze, I look at Grace, thankful she didn’t catch me ogling Pen on the ladder. The attraction I’ve felt toward her since I’ve returned is puzzling to me— I’m in the worst part of my life to look for a relationship. Pen is gorgeous, of course, but she deserves someone so much more than me. A better man who has his life together. One that’s more like her book boyfriends.
Grace’s shift ended fifteen minutes ago and I wish she would just leave. I haven’t been alone with Pen since that Valentine’s event. I’m not sure whether that’s simply how the schedule fell or, if Pen has intentionally kept us apart.
“I’m just saying,” Grace continues, “it would be so obvious and boring if?—”
"Why does everything have to be extravagant? Can't it just be simple?" I can't help but argue. "There's beauty in what's right in front of us. It may seem obvious, but it's still love. Love requires trust, emotion, and a deep connection. So no, I wouldn't mind if they ended up together because their love story deserves to be shared."
Grace looks at me blankly before bursting into a laugh. “Uh… okay. Go off king!” She shakes her head and shrugs on her coat. “Damn! Mr. Passionate over here! Goodnight y’all.”
The bells tinkle as she heads out and I turn to see Pen standing in front of the register. The reality that we’re alone and I haven’t said a word to her in a few weeks is a thick tension between us.
After a moment, she cracks a smile and I run my hand awkwardly through my hair. How does she have this effect on me? I never get nervous around women, and Pen is… an old friend.
“That was quite a passionate defense of the fated mate theory.” Pen’s smile is so genuine and warm, I’m forced to look away.
Shoving the receipt paper into my pocket, I shrug. “We’ve basically been wired our entire lives to expect a spectacle, when reality is so different.”
“Boring?” she offers.
“No,” I say sharply. Too sharply. She winces slightly, so I continue, “I find comfort in things that are simple. Straightforward.”
“I bet you hate the ‘miscommunication trope,’” Penelope says with a grin.
“It’s the fucking worst.” Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What do you prefer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want the spectacle?” My pulse thrums, waiting for her response.Why?A knot of anxiety curls in my gut that she’ll say yes, and why wouldn’t she?Damn it, this was dumb.Penelope Elizabeth Adams deserves more, far more, than my simple heart can possibly give her.
“Personally, I don’t think I have much coming my way in terms of romance.” Pen shrugs, giving an awkward laugh. “And I think that’s why I’ve always found comfort in the fantasy that books can provide.”
“That’s not true,” I murmur, but I don’t think she hears me. She shifts away from the register, walking to a nearby table and straightening the piles of books in our “buy three, get the fourth free” sale.
“When did you start getting tattoos?” she asks without looking up at me.
Her sudden question takes me by surprise, but it's not unusual for Pen to ask random and unexpected things. I push up my sleeves, revealing my tattoos on both arms— a full sleeve onthe right and a few smaller ones on the left. My most prominent tattoo is a phoenix rising from the ashes on my back, with its wings stretching across my shoulders.
“I don’t really know. I’ve had them for so long now.” I got my first tattoo when I was sixteen— underage, but I had a buddy whose brother worked at a shop. It had been the third summer without seeing Penelope and the summer my dad died; it was brutal. I wanted a tattoo so badly, something permanent to mark my skin, a reminder of something good in my life.
“Well what about the first one? How old were you?”
Jesus, can she read my mind? “Uh, sixteen.”
“Sixteen?!” Pen gives me an impressed look. “And you don’t regret it?”
“Never.”
“What is it? Can I see it?”
“Uh… sure.”
Penelope skips back over to the register— literally skips. Her long, dark-blonde hair bounces with every skip and her smile, directed at me, has me feeling a swoop in my stomach. I’m nervous to show her, curious if she’ll understand the significance. Holding out my left arm, I rotate my palm up, so she can see my first tattoo placed on my wrist.
“Oh my god,” Pen breathes. She takes my forearm with both hands and pulls me closer to her. The feeling of her soft hands on my skin is electric and I can’t help but hold my breath, if only to preserve this buzzing feeling between us. Pen rubs her thumb softly over the delicate black line illustration of a single Victorian-style lamppost, its base rooted in a hint of snow— just a soft cluster of dots hinting at winter, while goosebumps break out on my skin.
