Every time I look up, he’s already looking.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages until I find the group chat. I find the book title.
Death of the Author by Roland Barthes.
I walk to the literary theory section, find the book, and hold it in my hands without really seeing it.
Then I start wandering, moving deeper into the store. I walk past bestsellers, past young adult, and past self-help.
I keep scanning the room, looking for anyone who I might recognize.
But my eyes keep landing on Jax.
And every time they do, my heart plummets.
I make my way to the back corner. The furthest row from the entrance. Poetry and classics.
I lose sight of Jax for a minute.
Then he finds me again.
We casually browse the books, slowly gravitating to each other. I look at the books on the right, he’s looking at the left.
I take another step to the side, and my shoulder bumps into his.
He glances down at me.
I don’t meet his eyes. Instead, I watch his chest rise and fall. Once. Twice. Then I look up at him.
He’s staring at my lips.
The tension between us is so thick I can barely breathe.
I look at his lips. His nose. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his hair falls across his forehead.
I can feel his body heat radiating through the small space between us.
He isn’t looking at anything else but me.
I’m vibrating. Every nerve ending on fire.
I lean against him. Just slightly. I rest my head on his shoulder.
Like he means something to me.
Like I’m not breaking every rule my father set.
Jax doesn’t move.
One breath.
Two.
Then his hands pull me into his chest.
I melt under his touch immediately. My cheek presses against his shirt, and I hear his heartbeat racing just as fast as mine.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
