"Nothing serious, I hope."
Her hands stilled on the books. "No," she said. Clipped. Final.
The fluorescents overhead buzzed faintly. Electrical hum filling the silence between her lie and my patience.
I took two steps deeper into the store. Casual. Unhurried. Let my gaze drift across shelves, spines, the small touches that marked this place as hers—handwritten recommendation cards, staff picks displayed face-out, a reading nook with a lamp that didn't match.
"It's quieter than I expected," I said.
"Gideon Jones."
I guessed she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know me anymore.
My name landed flat. No awe threading through it. No shift in her breathing, no softening around the edges where most women melted into performance—the slightly breathless recognition, the manufactured surprise.
Just my name. Clinical. A fact catalogued and dismissed.
I noted the tone. The way she straightened without moving her feet. The deliberate absence of anything resembling warmth.
She still thinks denying me reaction is power.
I let my smile deepen. Slow. Knowing.
Indulgent.
"You remember." I said it soft, like the recollection pleased me. Like I'd hoped for exactly this.
Her jaw tightened. "Small town."
Throwing my own line back.
I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. Relaxed my shoulders. Gave her casual—unguarded, almost apologetic.
"I was in the area," I said. Gestured toward the front window. "Arena's only three blocks over. Saw the lights on."
Truth. Technically.
I had been in the area.
For forty minutes.
Parked two streets down where the angle gave me a clear sight of her front door.
"I'd heard about this place," I continued. Stepped toward the fiction section, let my gaze skim titles without really seeing them. "Independent bookstores are rare. Most people don't bother anymore."
She didn't respond immediately.
I felt her watching. Evaluating. Searching for the angle she knew existed but couldn't name yet.
"Most people stream," she said finally. "Read on tablets. We cater to a specific clientele."
"People who like quiet."
"People who like books."
I pulled a hardcover from the shelf at random. The Great Alone. Turned it over in my hands like I gave a fuck about the back copy.
"I prefer quiet places," I said. Glanced at her. Held her gaze just long enough to make the statement personal. "Crowds get exhausting."
