His palm is warm through my sweater. My body recognizes him faster than my brain allows permission. He smells like October and the kind of boy I promised myself I don’t love anymore. He looks down at me like I’m a page he dog-eared and never returned.
“Got you,” he murmurs.
I move first because self-preservation is muscle memory. I step out of his hold and crouch to right the books, pretending I’m not shaking.
“Careful,” I tell the paperbacks, because it’s easier than telling him.
He squats too—too close again—and passes me a novel. His knee bumps mine. We both pretend not to notice, which is unconvincing at best.
“Still got quick hands,” he says.
“Congratulations.” I stack the last book and stand. He does too. We’re almost nose to nose, which would be annoying if it weren’t doing criminal things to my heart rate.
The couple who just walked in clears their throat. “Is this the romance section?” the woman asks, barely hiding a smile.
“Apparently,” I mutter.
“Back wall, left,” Crew says smoothly, not taking his eyes off me as he points them toward it. The woman beams with delight and drags her partner away.
We share a helpless, stupid little grin that feels like a secret and a problem at once.
The register drawer chooses that moment to ding open of its own accord like it’s auditioning for the role ofchaperone.I mutter a curse and move behind the counter to fix it. He follows, of course, because he only understands the concept of boundaries in football.
“Want me to look at it?” he asks.
“Are you a cash register whisperer now?”
“I’m a man with two brothers and a farmer for a dad,” he says. “I can at least pretend to fix things convincingly.”
“You can convincinglylooklike you’re fixing things,” I correct. “Different skill set.”
He rounds the counter anyway, which is apparently open season on my personal space. We both reach for the drawer. He gets there first. His forearm brushes mine, and I learn more about the tensile strength of self-control in three seconds than any self-help book could teach.
“Your coil’s sticking,” he says, peering into the mechanism.
“My coil?”
“Technical term,” he deadpans. “Very advanced.”
“Fascinating.”
“Hand me a butter knife?” When I blink at him, he adds, “Gently.”
I pass him the shop’s sacrificial letter opener, which is at least knife-adjacent, and he uses it to wiggle the coil—fine, maybe thatiswhat it’s called—until the drawer slides true.
He looks up, triumphant, and the tiny flush of pride on his cheek warms something in me I didn’t authorize.
“There,” he says. “Fixed.”
“You poked it and got lucky.”
“Story of my life,” he says without thinking, then winces. “That sounded—”
“In character,” I supply.
He laughs, low and helpless, and I do not smile (I absolutely smile.).
We stare at each other, and the current between us hums like the transformer outside during storms. His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine drop to his. We both catch ourselves and pretend we are looking at anything else.
