“Excuse me?” I finally manage, my voice flustered and shaky. “Who are you talking to?”
“You,” he lightly chuckles. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.
“You’re callingmegorgeous?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, disbelief making me blunt.
He smiles, and it transforms his face from merely handsome to something that makes my stomach flip. “I call it like I see it.”
“You don’t know me,” I say, clutching my books tighter, as if they might shield me from this strange interaction. “And I’m married.” I don’t know why I add that last part, some ingrained loyalty to Eli that persists despite everything, or maybe just a reflex, a warning to myself as much as to him.
“Are you even buying those books, or are you just trying to pick up random women?” I ask, nodding at the small stack in his hand, trying to regain some control over this situation.
He holds up his selection, a couple of fantasy novels with dragons and skulls on their covers, and at the bottom, peeking out, the corner of what is unmistakably a dark romance novel, its cover featuring a masked man.
I laugh, not at his selection, but at the absurdity of the situation. A smoking hot man, in a bookstore, calling me gorgeous, reading the same kinds of books I do. It feels like a scene from one of my novels, not my actual life.
“What’s funny?” he asks, but he’s smiling too, like he’s in on the joke.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I just... I need to check out.”
I turn abruptly, walking toward the front of the store, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety for once. Behind me, I hear his boots on the hardwood floor, following at a respectful distance.
One of my books, the paranormal romance, slips from my precarious stack and falls to the floor with a soft thud. Before I can bend to retrieve it, he’s there, picking it up.
“You dropped something,” he says, holding it out to me.
Our fingers brush as I take it, and the contact sends an electric current up my arm. I jerk back, nearly dropping the book again. “Thanks,” I mutter, quickly adding it back to my pile.
At the counter, I place my stack down, avoiding the curious look the clerk gives me and the unnamed man, who’s now standing a few feet behind me, waiting his turn. I focus on digging through my purse for my wallet, pulling out my debit card with slightly trembling fingers.
The clerk scans each book, the beep of the register a steady rhythm that helps calm my racing heart. “That’ll be $87.45,” she says, and I slide my card through the reader.
The machine beeps, an angry sound that’s different from the scanner. “I’m sorry,” the clerk says, her voice dropping to that sympathetic tone retail workers perfect. “It’s declined.”
Heat floods my face. “That’s impossible. Can you try again?”
She does, her movements more careful this time, like she’s trying to be extra gentle with the machine. Another angry beep. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.
I can feel his presence behind me, witness to my humiliation. The air in the store suddenly feels too thick to breathe. “I... I need to make a call,” I stammer, stepping away from the counter, leaving my precious books behind.
Stumbling toward the front door, pushing it open and gulping in the cooler outside air. My hands shake as I pull out my phone and dial the bank’s number, already knowing what they’ll say but needing to hear it, anyway.
After navigating the automated system, a customer service representative confirms my worst fear. “I’m showing that you called earlier today and notified us that your card was lost or stolen. You also added your husband as the account primary. We sent a notification earlier, ‘If this was not a mistake, please ignore.’ We didn’t receive a response. So, we went ahead with the changes.”
The timing isn’t lost on me. I had just gotten to work and forgot about the bank notification. That wasn’t even 10 minutes after I left the house and I told him I was coming here. My throat tightens as I thank the representative and hang up, then immediately dial Eli’s number.
He answers on the second ring. “What?”
Just that one word, dripping with annoyance, makes me shrink. “My bank card is called in as missing… by me this morning.” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “I told you no more books.”
“It’s my money,” I say, but the words come out weak, lacking conviction because we both know it isn’t true. Not really. Not in any way that matters.
“It’s my money now,” he says, “and I’m sick of you wasting it on that shit. You’ve got enough to last you a lifetime.”
“They’re not shit, they’re-”
“They’re garbage, Lila. Mindless garbage for bored housewives who don’t appreciate what they have. Which apparently includes you.”
