My phone buzzed on the counter across the room.
I didn't move to check it. Didn't trust my legs. Didn't trust myself.
The bookstore felt different now.
Smaller.
Lonelier.
Wrong without him in it.
And that terrified me more than any punishment ever could.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Rough. Angry. Like I could scrub away what just happened.
No.
I refused to think about Gideon. About his mouth claiming mine like he'd been starving for it. About his hands—strong, possessive, gentle when they shouldn't have been. About the way my body opened for him like it had been waiting all along.
No.
I shook my head once, sharp and firm. I wouldn't think about it. Wouldn't replay the sounds I made. Wouldn't remember how his voice broke when he whispered my name.
Work.
That was what I needed.
I moved behind the counter on unsteady legs, forcing myself to focus on the display case knocked askew during last week's renovation. The glass sat crooked, reflecting the overhead lights at odd angles.
I grabbed the edge and pulled, muscles protesting.
It didn't budge.
I tried again. Harder.
The case scraped against the floor with a sharp screech that made me flinch.
Good.
Pain was grounding.
I rearranged the books inside—first editions, signed copies, the ones I kept locked away from casual browsing. My hands moved automatically, placing each spine in perfect alignment.
Alphabetical. Always alphabetical. Straightened the stacks of bookmarks beside the register. Adjusted the angle of the donation jar. Wiped dust from the wood grain with my sleeve. Breathed deep.
Once.
Twice.
Work. Focus. Breathe.
My hands still trembled despite my best efforts. I pressed them flat against the counter, willing them still. The wood was cool beneath my palms. Solid. Real. Unlike everything else in my life right now.
I counted inventory numbers in my head. Recited ISBNs I'd memorized years ago. Focused on the familiar rhythm of the work I'd done a thousand times before.
Anything to stop thinking about?—
No.
