He’s also wearing a displeased frown.
“I’d like to speak to the person in charge.”
“I’d like to speak to the person in charge, please,” Ann-Sabrina says sweetly.
“Jesus,” Harlington mutters, but he manages to choke out the ‘please’.
Ann-Sabrina winks. “Here she is.”
“You? Surely not.”
“What do you mean by that? Are you terrified of women? Shocked to see a female out and about without a chaperone?” Ann-Sabrina asks, crossing her arms. Nothing sets her off faster than a misogynist.
“Not at all. I’m just surprised that you aren’t on your way to Hollywood with those acting skills you demonstrated.”
Harlington’s eyes flick toward me, assessing me.
“I’m just an errand boy,” I say.
He frowns, then turns his attention back to my friend. “Do you have Hardy and Dickens in stock?”
“Nope,” she replies cheerfully.
“Nope?” Harlington repeats. He looks like he’s getting a migraine. “Well, when are you restocking?”
“I’m not. I have a limited shelf and storage space. Wasting that on boring men wouldn’t be a good business strategy,” Ann-Sabrina says.
Harlington glances at her trophy shelf—the Shadow Daddy altar of romantasy and dark romance. “I see,” he harrumphs. “Does this unrealistic hunk junk make for a better strategy?”
Ann-Sabrina hisses, and I realize there is something that sets her off fasterthan a misogynist: a misogynist who looks down on romance.
“My shirtless men pay more than half of this store’s bills, you sanctimonious scarecrow.”
Harlington’s lips twitch. “I hope you didn’t just call your customer a scarecrow.”
She huffs. “I didn’t. You aren’t going to buy anything anyway. You’re obviously one of those jerks who think romance isn’t literature.”
“Of course it’s literature,” Harlington replies smoothly. “The same way French fries are food. Enjoyable, certainly, but not exactly nourishing.”
Instead of attacking the professor with scissors like I assumed, Ann-Sabrina dismisses him and returns behind the counter.
“Fair enough. I learned your views on romance, and you learned I don’t stock your boner-killers.”
A dismissal by a young woman wearing a CRUSH THE PATRIARCHY t-shirt and a fake crown is probably not what Harlington had in mind when he entered the shop.
“Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” she says, not even looking at him anymore.
After he has stepped out, Ann-Sabrina releases a long breath.
“Did you notice his arms? I wonder what he does for a living.”
“He’s a literature professor.”
“That explains a lot.” My friend admires her nails. “Enemies to lovers has always been my favorite trope. Maybe I should attend one of his lectures and cause some chaos.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
“So, about Antonio. Should I book a table for our night of pasta and fake orgasms?”
