I speed through the sleepy streets of Beaver Creek. The only thing going on this Sunday afternoon is the Festival of Local Authors. The library parking lot was packed when I left earlier. I don’t want to imagine it now. Not that I need to. I can already see the cars parked on the street in front of it. I groan and give up before even trying. I park in the first spot I see next to the café, directly behind a Ford SUV.
I barely turn off my car before hopping out. I jog over to the parking metre, even though I know parking is free on Sundays. But I need to check just in case those rules have changed. Satisfied I won't get ticketed, I open the passenger side door and grab the cardboard box out of the front seat. It's heavier than I expect, knocking me off kilter. I nudge the door shut with my hip and fish around in the pocket of my magenta floral sundress for my keys. I press the button several times and my car chimes like it's offended I needed to triple check it was locked. But itislocked.
Some naïve part of my brain hopes the event hasn't started yet. I know it has. I know I'm late. I know this is the worst possible impression I could make on everyone who thinks I'm a professional. So I pick up my pace and try to stay as steady as possible in my ill-advised wedge heel sandals. Which turns outto be an even bigger mistake than forgetting the books in the first place, because I come crashing face first into a solid wall.
That solid wall being a man’s chest.
Already speeding and a little off balance, I flip my ankle, lose grip on the cardboard box, and find myself falling onto uneven sidewalk. Suddenly there are five of my ten books scattered on the ground, plus one extremely frazzled author.
“Oh, shit,” the mystery man says. He has three black books with bold red font in his hands.Zander Browningis scrawled in white letters on the spine. So, this is definitely not how I wanted to introduce myself today. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”
“No, it was my fault. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He ducks into his car, drops his books, then bends to grab my slightly banged up ARCs. He pauses on the name. “Adelaide?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. I nod. “I’m Zander. Here for the same event, I guess.”
“I guess so,” I say. “We’re both late.”
“That we are.” He adds the last of my scattered books back into the box, straightens, and offers me a hand. “Can you get up?”
“Oh,” I say. I rotate my ankles. There’s a dull sting in my right one, but nothing unmanageable. I take his hand. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He smiles at me and it is the most charming thing I have ever witnessed. Simple, and he probably doesn’t even realize it, but so disarming. He doesn’t have perfect teeth, one front tooth is slightly shorter than the other, but his dimples…I’m a sucker for dimples. I’m also, apparently, a sucker for that extremely 90s curtain haircut. He has Prince Charming bangs. Messy, like he’s run a hand through his hair but every piece knows exactly where to fall in place.
Maybe I also whacked my head against the sidewalk, because,excuse me, Adelaide,it is simply not the time to feel this way about someone.
He pulls me to my feet, then slides his hand along my forearm, up to my elbow to steady me. I know he’s not trying to be sexy. I know itisn’ta sexy moment. But I have no way of convincing myself that when the goosebumps rise on my skin and my whole body shudders. Luckily for me, the goosebumps are not visible under my cardigan. Unluckily for me, I am too much of a redhead to not have the colour show on my face.
Zander crouches and grabs my box of books. He turns and grabs the three books from his car. On closer inspection, his books are also advance copies.
“How’d you get so many ARCs?” he asks.
He bumps his car door shut with his hip, like I’d done moments before, then starts walking. I stand and stare at his back for a moment. Catching my mind up to the events of the last several minutes…and admiring how he fills out a pair of grey jeans. He glances over his shoulder, then turns, one corner of his lips ticked up in question. I tentatively take a step, then speed walk over to him.
“It’s my third release. My publisher seems to think this one will perform well after how my second did. So, miraculously, more ARCs. I didn’t have any physical with my first.”
“Congratulations!” Zander says, and the pride in his voice tells me he means it. “This is my fifth. And these,” he points his strong jaw toward the three books he has balanced on top of my box, “are my trophies.”
I let out an undignified snort and note the dimple in his cheek. “They really feel like that, don’t they?”
“Most of the time. Then I go back home and stare at the shelf of books I have no idea what to do with. It feels very self-centred to have a shrine dedicated to myself.”
“If you don’t hype yourself, who will?”
We come up to the library and I awkwardly jog up the front steps, below the ionic columns, and prop open a heavy woodendoor for him. He climbs the stairs with ease, like he’s not carrying approximately thirteen pounds of books.
“Thank you.” He winks as he passes me and through the open door.
I swallow and watch as he heads further into the library. Before I left, I took note of the table layout. His is right next to mine. I’msogoing to make a fool of myself today.
Chapter Two
Zander
Ihave never written genre romance in my life. Hell, I have no desire to ever do that. But I’m convinced whatever I’m feeling right now is some sort of trope.
I scan the room, squinting at the banners and tablecloths, until I find a romance author who chatted with me while I was setting up today. Maybe she would know. Her head is bowed as she signs a book for a resident of Beaver Creek. One I recognize from when I lived in town over fifteen years ago. I bite down on my bottom lip as my body tightens up.
I hate being back here, but I do it for Gran. She’s the one who suggested to Brianna, the head librarian, that she approach my agent about this event. I almost said no.
