“Keep it.” He says.
I wrinkle my nose. “What? No. I can’t?—”
“Is that not a tip jar?” He nods toward the empty glass container on the counter, but his eyes never leave my face.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
It is.
Unfortunately.
I clench my jaw and drop the change inside. “Thank you.” I mutter.
I reach for the book to bag it, and he does too. Ourfingers touch again. This time, neither of us pulls back right away.
His hands are warm and rough, with scarred knuckles that hint at the violence I know he’s capable of. It’s hard to believe they’re the same hands that touched my face so delicately.
I feel him watching me again. Studying me.
“Did you need anything else?” I ask, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism.
“Actually, yes.” He says, leaning against the counter. “I was curious about something.”
“What?” I ask warily.
“Why romance?”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He says, gesturing around the shop. “Why did you open a romance bookstore specifically?”
It’s a normal question. The kind strangers ask when they’re making small talk. But coming from him, it feels invasive. Like he’s searching for something to use against me.
The real answer is that romance novels were the only thing that made me feel something after I lost my parents. Their happily-ever-afters felt like proof that good things could still exist in my world, even if I was just experiencing them vicariously.
“I like them.” I say simply.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one I have for you.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s deciding whether to push. Then they drop to my neck again.
“Your pulse is still racing.”
My face flushes. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Is it?” He picks up the book, tucking it under his arm, but he doesn’t move away. “Or do you just need me to leave before you do something you’ll regret?”
I narrow my eyes at the accusation.
I hate that there’s truth in it. Hate that my body is betraying me. That some traitorous part of me likes him being here.
“You’re delusional.” I hiss.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel his minty breath against my ear. “Then why haven’t you told me to fuck off yet?”
Because I can’t seem to form words when you’re this close.Because my brain short-circuits every time you look at me like that.Because some damaged part of me recognizes the danger in you and gravitates toward it anyway.
