My phone buzzes against the register like it’s trying to hop off the counter. I glance at the screen.
Lila:He’s there, isn’t he? He won’t answer my texts.
Me:No comment.
Ivy:Omg live photo or I riot.
Me:It’s a bookstore, not a zoo exhibit.
Lila:Did he apologize yet?
Me:For existing? No.
Ivy:For breathing the same air as you with that face. No apology accepted without an offering (flowers, pastries, firstborn, etc.).
Me:You’re unhelpful.
Ivy:I’m honest. Also, fix your hair. He’s looking.
I shove the phone under a stack of spiral notebooks because apparently I’m a teenager again.
“Your security detail checking in?” Crew asks, amused.
“My friends don’t trust me around fire hazards,” I say. “You qualify.”
“Fair.” He sighs, and there it is again—his grin dimming at the edges, honesty stalking the perimeter. “Bailey—”
“Don’t.” I automatically hold up my hand because if he saysI’m sorryin that careful voice, I might let the words stitch up places I’ve learned to live with being open.
He nods once and doesn’t push. “Recommendation taken.” He taps the book he’s still holding. “I’ll take this one. And… another. Surprise me.”
I blink. “You’re asking me to pick a second book without knowing what it is?”
“I’m asking you to pick a second book because you know me better than I’d like.” And then, like he can feel me bolting, he adds with a crooked smile, “And because I trust your taste in fiction more than my own.”
I hate that it lands, that sloppy compliment, right where I’m weakest—right where I’m proudest.
“Fine.” I slide a copy of a coastal romcom from the shelf under the counter—sharp banter, slow ache, a lighthouse on the cover because I am a menace. “This. It’s clever and a little devastating.”
“Like you,” he says, almost reflexively, then rubs the back of his neck like he wishes he’d had the good sense to keep that thought inside.
I ring them up, and he slides his card across the credit card scanner. Seeing his name on the plastic—Crew Wright—hits harder than it should.
The receipt prints in a stuttering line. I tear it off and reach out to hand it to him, but he doesn’t move to take it at first. We’re close again, the counter suddenly a narrow strip of land between two countries with very complicated treaties. He looks at me like he’s memorizing the CliffsNotes before an exam he actually cares about passing this time.
The door opens; a gust of cold air threads between us. We step back as an older man wanders in, asking for nautical maps. I point him to the back corner. Crew tucks his books under his arm like contraband.
“I’ll bring the romcom back,” he says softly. “I owe you notes.”
“Dog-ears are a crime punishable by banishment,” I say.
“I’ll underline with a ruler.”
“Acceptable.”
He hesitates, then nods toward the ceiling. “Your west eave’s crying. I can hear it from the steps.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s dramatic in the wind.”
