“You don’t strike me as much of a reader.” I say, trying to regain some control over the situation.
He glances back over his shoulder. “You don’t know me well enough to make that assumption, Bambi.”
There’s that nickname again.
“Don’t call me that.” I mutter, tugging on my collar.
“Why not?” He asks, his eyes still skimming across the shelf. “It suits you.”
I grimace. “It really doesn’t.”
“Agree to disagree.”
He pulls a book from the shelf and holds it up. “Ah, here we go. I’ve been looking for this one.”
It’s Darkfever by Karen Marie Moning.
I stare at him.
“You have?” I ask, fighting a smile.
“Yes.” He says automatically. “It’s been on my list for a while now.”
“Hmm.” I nod, trying to hide my amusement. “I didn't take you for someone into fae smut, but I’m not one to kink shame.”
He quirks a brow. “Fae what?—”
I watch him glance down at the cover and then look around the store. Taking in the predominantly female clientele and the shelves labeled with different genres of romance and something like realization crosses his face.
“Well, I guess it’s not just fae smut.” I continue with a completely straight face. “There’s also these really hot mysterious beasts. And immortals. So many yummy immortals. It’s one of my favorites.”
Echo shakes his head and smirks at me. “Well, if it’s one of your favorites.” He says, drawing out his words before gently licking his lips. “Then I’m definitely taking it.”
My eyes linger on his mouth for a second too long andof course,he notices.
“Come ring me up.” He says, nodding towards the register.
I clear my throat and follow him, inwardly cursingmyself for getting caught staring. Echo stops in front of the counter and slides the paperback towards me.
“You’re really going to buy that?” I ask, the disbelief in my voice clear as day.
“Of course.” He says smoothly, pulling a leather wallet out of his back pocket. “The books are for sale, aren’t they?”
I roll my eyes and scan the book, hyper-aware that his eyes are on me.
“That’ll be $16.41.” I say, proud that my voice sounds at least somewhat normal.
He takes out a hundred-dollar bill, and when he hands it to me, his fingers deliberately brush against mine.
My body jolts in response.
“Jumpy.” He notes, studying my face with that infuriating smirk.
I snap my hand back. “I am not.”
I count out his change quickly, fumbling with the bills. My hands are shaking, and I know he notices because his mouth curves into a half-smile.
I jerk the bills toward him.
