He raises an eyebrow, intrigue lighting his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”
“What if it is?” I tease.
“Throw down the gauntlet, Price.” He grins. “And I will gladly pick it up.”
I cross my arms and cock my brow. “You know you have to actually touch things.”
He stares at me for a moment, and I wish so much that I could read his expression, but then he whispers, “I don’t want to break anything.”
“But that’s the best part of this place.” I gesture around the room. “Everything here is already broken.” I pick up a chipped tea pot on the shelf next to me. It’s painted light blue with pink flowers around the rim. I hand it to him. “See this? Someone already loved this enough to chip it.”
Shepherd takes it from me, his large fingers surprisingly gentle as they trace the jagged edge. “And that’s why you want it? Because it’s imperfect?” His warm hazel eyes catch my gaze and with the sunlight shining through the window, I can pick out tiny flecks of gold.
“Exactly.” I watch his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “Perfect things are boring. They don’t have stories.”
He nods slowly, as if he’s registering everything I’m not saying.
“And what story does this one tell?”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “Maybe it belonged to someone’s grandmother. Maybe it got chipped during an argument. Maybe?—”
“Maybe someone loved it too much,” he finishes, handing it back to me.
Something thick and uncomfortable lodges in my throat athis words. I set the teapot down, careful not to chip it further, and turn away before he can see whatever expression is trying to form on my face.
“Come on,” I say, clearing my throat. “The good stuff’s in the back.”
Within five minutes, he knocks a hanger to the floor. Within ten, he accidentally spins an entire clothing rack. By fifteen, he’s holding up a teal sequined blazer like it personally offended him.
“This…exists?” he says.
“Hell yeah, it exists. Look at it!” I marvel. “It’s glorious.” It’s not. It’s loud and shiny but this is the fun of thrifting so I’ll gladly be excited about this rare find.
“It’s aggressive.”
“It’s fashion!” I exclaim. “Maybe there’s only one of these in existence in the whole world and it’s right here in your hands.”
He studies it, nods, and then puts it in the cart.
“You’re buying that?” I ask.
“No,” he says calmly. “You are.”
I burst out a laugh. “Oh, my God.”
We round the corner into the home décor aisle and I immediately regret everything. The shelves are stacked with ceramic angels, glass vases, questionable porcelain dolls, and at least forty-seven decorative plates with inspirational quotes in cursive.
The floorboards creak beneath Shepherd’s weight, and I find myself hyperaware of his presence behind me, the gentle rhythm of his breathing, and the way he carefully maneuvers his broad frame to avoid knocking things over.
“This feels…breakable.”
“It is,” I say, trying not to grin at the bull in the China shop.
He looks down at his hands like they’re brand new. “These are not small hands.”
“You’re just aware of that now?” I laugh.
“Nah, I’ve always been aware.”
