“There’s a chance.”
Kat claps, her silver bangles jangling against one another. “I need to be working when he comes back. If I’m not, you owe me an autograph.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off. There’s no way I’m asking Cole for an autograph. That would only give him the wrong idea about what I want. “You sure you’re good to close tonight? You don’t need me to stay?”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a playful smile. “I’ve worked here for three years, Maya. I think I can handle a book club.”
I nod and give her a reassuring smile, despite the worry that pricks at the back of my mind. “Okay, okay.”
We host all kinds of book clubs. It’s good business—they buy their books through us, rent the space for a small fee, and bring in their own snacks. We’ve got the Due Date Book Club, full of exhausted but enthusiastic new moms. There’s the Paranoia & Probes Book Club, made of readers who enjoy books with high stakes, high tech, and mind-bending twists. My favorite is the Pinot and Prose Book Club. The members are just as serious about their merlot as they are about their plot twists.
Tonight’s club can be a handful, and that’s putting it mildly. They call themselves the On the Same Page Book Club, which is ironic, because they’re never on the same page. By the way they behave, one would think they aren’t even reading the same genre. Last month, one woman punched another in the boob when they disagreed over the pronunciation of a character’s name. I grew up playing ref when my siblings argued, and they argueda lot, so handling them doesn’t faze me. Katrina, on the other hand, abhors confrontation, despite her badass persona.
“I’ll call you if anything catches fire,” Kat says with a grin. “Or if someone smashes a wine bottle. Now get out of here and go have fun. One of us deserves to enjoy our Friday night.”
“Fine, fine.” I shrug on my parka as Katrina practically shoves me out into the cold.
As I walk home, shoulders shrugged and chin tucked into the collar of my coat, I wonder for the hundredth time why I didn’t move somewhere warmer. Florida. Texas. Literally anywhere that won’t turn my nipples into glass shards the instant I step outside. I don’t fully thaw until I’m curled on my couch, eating carry-out Pad Thai and cradling a book in my hands. This probably isn’t what Katrina had in mind when she told me to have fun, but what she doesn’t know won’t kill her.
Before long, I’m thoroughly lost in my book. My living room fades away and is replaced by a setting in the distant future, where a farmer’s daughter finds out she’s actually a princess.
When my phone rings, I’m not sure whether it’s been five minutes or five hours. Though the off-key screech of my neighbor’s violin tells me it’s at least ten p.m. I know it’s a good book when not even her abysmal attempt to play Vivaldi distracts me.
I dig my phone out from between the couch cushions, but when I see the name flashing on the screen, I briefly debate dropping it back into the crevice and ignoring it.
My heart thuds as I gape at the device a little longer. Why is Cole video calling me?
Our exchanges have been limited to text messages.ThatI can handle. That’s safe. He can’t see the way my cheeks turn a dark shade of pink every time he casually refers to me as “bean.” The nickname shouldn’t be so cute; there’s nothing adorable about lima beans or black beans. But it is, thanks to my coffee addiction and love for Boston Bean. And yes, maybe the smirk I know Cole is wearing when he types it out is, too.
I should probably ignore the call. But I’m too curious, so I swipe Accept.
Big mistake on my part.
“Uh, hi,” I croak.
He’s so gorgeous it’s a miracle I can even get that much out. Water droplets slide from his hair onto his nape and run in rivulets over his bare shoulders?—
Like a record scratch, the world screeches to a halt around me.Bare shoulders?
Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?
Cole chuckles and a triumphant grin bursts across his lips.
The air evacuates my lungs when I realize I said that last part out loud. Damn his sexiness for making it impossible to keep my thoughts to myself.
“I think we should focus on your shirt. Does it sayBookstore Whore?”
Oh God. Kill me. Kill me now.
“It was a gift from Kennedy,” I explain, my face burning. “I forgot I had it on.”
I don’t mention the other shirts she gave me:Smut SlutandAlways Tired(from reading all night). It’s bad enough that I got caught wearing this one.
I mentally shake off the mortification. Why do I care? Cole’s just a friend. Honestly, he’s just a tiny step above acquaintance. Maybe it’s a cop-out to relegate him to that role, because it’s clear already that he wouldn’t be like other guys I’ve dated. He wouldn’t let me keep him at arm’s length. He’d steamroll his way into my life, make himself integral, then vanish just as fast, leaving me to watch him through my TV screen.
“I like it, bean.” His smile widens. “And I’m not wearing a shirt because I just got out of the shower.”
Don’t think of his naked body. Keep your thoughts PG. Focus on his face.
