Head hanging, I give it a shake. There isn’t a sport in existence with hour-long halves.Dear God.
We sip our drinks while arguing the finer points of athletics. She’s not ignorant about sports in general, she just really doesn’t care. She’s lived in Boston her whole life but has never attended a single professional sports game. And damn if that isn’t refreshing.
“What’s your favorite sports romance?” I ask. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”
I won’t, but her eyes light up, which was the reaction I was going for. I listen intently as she chatters on about a soccer romance where the star player dates the coach’s daughter. I didn’t expect a whole SparkNotes version of the book when I asked, but the way she discusses tropes and character arcs and something called the third-act breakup has me rapt.
I truly can’t remember the last time I was interested in spending time with a woman. I’ve spent my whole life focused on hockey, which doesn’t leave room for much more. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t change the choices I’ve made, but I don’t particularly enjoy that I’ve become the cliché sports player who’s married to the game. Especially as my childhood friends are getting married and starting that “next chapter” of their lives. My next chapter has always just been hockey, my happily ever after a spot with the San Diego Devils.
“What do you do for work?” I ask. “Please tell me it has something to do with books.”
She flashes me a mischievous smile that has my balls tightening in my slacks. “I’m actually Punxsutawney Phil’s travel agent, believe it or not.”
Her expression and tone are so deadpan that I genuinely can’t tell whether she’s kidding.
Before I can confirm, a figure storms into the alcove and growls, “For the love of the original cast ofHamilton, if you’re in here with your?—”
The interloper catches sight of me and snaps her mouth shut. The way her eyes widen is a dead giveaway that at least one of the women in this alcove recognizes me. Her dark blond hair swishes against her back as she looks from me to my companion and back again, brow furrowed.
“Sorry, hi,” she says, snapping out of her confused trance. “I didnotmean to interrupt… this. When I couldn’t find you, I figured you’d snuck off somewhere to read, but…” She waves a hand at me. “I can see I was mistaken.”
The woman beside me brushes my arm as she covertly slides the e-reader behind my back. “I wouldneverdo something so antisocial. This is a party, for God’s sake, not a book club, Kennedy.”
“No reading here,” I confirm with a nod. “Just quality conversation.”
Clearly, this is a common occurrence, and I kind of like that I’m partnering up with her to cover up her crime.
“Ah, well, I’ll just be on my way then,” the newcomer—Kennedy—replies with a mega-watt smile and eyebrow waggle. “Continue on with your… quality conversation.”
Her tone drips with innuendo, making the phrase sound absurdly sexual, which makes my mystery reader’s cheeks turn redder than a tomato.
For a moment, she doesn’t move, like she’s stunned. But when she snaps out of it, she hurriedly shoves her e-reader into her purse and stands.
“I should go find her.” Her eyes move to mine, andshe gives me a shy smile. “It was nice talking to you…”
“Cole,” I supply.
“Maya,” she responds on her way out. “Enjoy your whiskey, Cole.”
It hasn’t beenthatlong since I got laid, so why the hell does my name on her tongue send very explicit images through my mind?
I’m so caught off guard by my body’s reaction that it doesn’t even occur to me that I should’ve asked for her number, or Instagram handle, or quite literally anything.Fuck.
I knock back the rest of my whiskey and stand. As I leave the alcove, I survey the room, but she’s nowhere to be seen. It’s ironic, this situation. This woman who loves a good story has gone ahead and turned our meeting into a real-lifeCinderellascenario. I may not have her shoe, but I’ve got her name, and that’s all the information I need to find out who she is.
CHAPTER TWO
maya
There’snothing better than the smell of books. The almond and vanilla tang is better than any perfume, freshly baked cake, or bouquet of flowers. The instant I step into the Book Nook, I’m surrounded by it. Shoulder-high bookshelves divide the store into sections and line the walls. New releases occupy the endcaps, and top sellers and timeless classics adorn square tables scattered throughout the space. Tucked away in the back are comfy reading chairs, where customers can curl up with a book in one hand and a coffee in the other.
The owner of the store went prematurely gray last year when we added a counter for coffee and pastries. For months, each clank of the hammer and whir of the power drill were a personal affront to her existence. But the new setup draws in fresh faces. While our prime location gives us constant foot traffic, we can always use a little extra boost in an industry that’s increasingly digital. And having a best friend who knows the best bakers in town is a bonus, since her pastry connections have the bookstore smelling like a dream every morning. Not even Blythe can deny that freshly baked cinnamon rolls and Danishes add to the store’s welcoming atmosphere.
I take a sip of my large Boston Bean coffee and survey the store, relishing how quickly the warm liquid fights off the haze of exhaustion. Sunday shifts always suck, especially after being out late the night before. The three espresso martinis I put away had me up until three a.m., and that’s enough to turn anyone into a grouch. So here I am, bleary-eyed and far from bushy tailed.
The morning passes by in a blur. A small group of college-age girls wander in with hot chocolates, and we chat about cowboy romances before they leave with a couple of steamy novels and a new historical fiction pick. I recommend a few sci-fi books to a pair of twin boys who—according to their mother—are addicted to video games and need to put their brains to good use. After I had to gently explain to them that while aspects of science fiction could be based in fact, they were not replacements for their science textbooks, I agree.
I’m pricing new merchandise in the back office when Katrina, my assistant manager, pops her head in to tell me I have a visitor.
