“Well, this looks interesting.” Michael pulls a book from my basket—one of my romance titles.
Instinctively, I grimace, feeling embarrassed. But then I remember what I decided: I’m not trying to impress him. I’m just being myself. I’ve been denying my love of romance but holding these books in my hands has made me feel better than I have in a long time.
“Yes.” I lift my chin, taking a deep breath. “I read romance novels. And I’m writing one too.”
“Hmm,” he says, and I can tell he’s struggling not to smile by the way his lower lip is trembling.
“You can judge me all you like, but—”
“Alex,” he says, his face softening as he places the book back in my basket, “why would I judge you for liking romance novels?”
I falter, surprised by his response. “Well… you thought it was hilarious when you saw me with them at work.”
“Did I?”
“You were making fun of me.”
“No. I wasn’t making fun of you. I was actually…” He rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks turn crimson as his gaze falls to his feet. “I was trying to flirt with you. Not very well, obviously.”
“Oh,” I murmur, processing this. I think back to that day when he showed up at work. “Did you really forget that I worked there?”
“No,” he says sheepishly. “I… wanted to see you.”
Delight sweeps through me, and when he glances up with a shy smile, my heartbeat wobbles. For a second I forget all about the fact that I’m not supposed to be interested in him, and contemplate stepping forward to kiss him.
Shit.Snap out of it.
“And then I told you your book was crap,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood. “So you thought,fuck her, she’s a bitch.” I give a strained laugh, but Michael doesn’t join in.
“I never once thought that.”
He’s staring at me so intensely that my pulse is rushing. I swallow, suddenly aware that we’re alone down this narrow aisle, and he’s standing very close to me. It’s the bloody injured shoulder ordeal all over again. How do I keep ending up in these enclosed spaces with him? At least this time he’s fully clothed, though it wouldn’t be hard to remedy that…
I shake my head, willing myself to pull it together. I need to get out of this bookstore and get some fresh air. I need to take a cold shower.
I go to reach for my basket, but Michael stops me. “Is that why you didn’t want to tell me you’re writing a romance novel? Because you thought I’d make fun of you?”
“I don’t know.” I lean against the bookshelf behind me with a weary sigh. “They’re a bit of a guilty pleasure, I guess.”
“What is there to feel guilty about?”
I think of Mum’s words and cringe. “They give you unrealistic expectations, make you want things you can’t have.”
“Like what?”
The word “love” almost tumbles out of my mouth, but I catch myself just in time. Because that’s crazy—I can’t tell Michael that. But when I glance at him, I can tell he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I look down at my hands. “Do you remember at Beanie, when I told you I felt like I had nothing to show for my twenties?”
“Of course.”
“Well… I wasn’t just talking about my career.” I may as well be honest. He probably deserves an explanation for everything, anyway. I mean, he told me he liked me and I just… didn’t respond. I didn’t tell him any of the things I was thinking. I just let him believe I didn’t like him at all.
“Okay, this is embarrassing, but—” I glance up and down the aisle, checking we’re alone. “I got dumped on my birthday, and it… made me really bitter.”
“Some guy dumped you on your birthday?”
I look back at Michael, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but there is none. If anything, he looks almost shocked.
