7
Adam
I don’t know why I’m surprised Kolby works at Vino and Veritas. For one thing, it’s an inclusive bookstore and wine bar. Exactly the kind of place a guy like him would be right at home. Not only because he’s out. Because he’s smart. Always has his nose in a book. Can carry on a conversation on just about any subject.
In short, everything I’m not.
And for another, he has more jobs than a temp service. Not only does he work in the registrar’s office part time, Courtney told me he’s her RA, too. It doesn’t shock me in the least that he’s got one more gig going.
Not that I was asking her about him or anything. It came up in conversation. Totally naturally.
Yeah, right.
I hesitate outside the window of the bookstore, but it’s not the display—an odd combination of rainbows, LGBTQ titles, and books on raising goats that somehow totally works for Vermont—that has my attention. It’s Kolby.
He looks practically edible behind the counter in his usual skinny jeans and another one of his stylish button-downs—this one a soft teal. He’s ringing up an older woman with a stack of books almost as tall as she is. And obviously charming the pants off her—figuratively, not literally, of course—if the way she’s smiling and laughing are anything to go by.
As he’s bagging her books, a good-looking, thirty-something guy with thick-rimmed hipster glasses and dark, stylishly short hair comes up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder like they’ve known each other forever. The casual, almost intimate touch rattles me, and irrational shards of jealousy stab at my gut.
I didn’t come here to stalk Kolby. Really. I came because it’s my mom’s birthday next week, and I want to send her the latest Ruth Ware book, which they don’t have at the campus bookstore.
But maybe it’s fate. I’ve felt like the biggest piece of human garbage on the face of the earth ever since I ignored him at the Green Bean yesterday. I don’t know what the hell came over me. I freaked out. My brain kept telling my feet to stop, but they wouldn’t listen.
Maybe Kolby being at V and V is the universe’s way of telling me I should apologize for being such an asshat.
Before I can change my mind, I go for the door, holding it open for the woman Kolby was ringing out as she leaves. She gives me an encouraging smile when she passes me, almost like she knows I need an extra shot of confidence. I soak it up, grateful for every little bit I can get.
It’s my first time at V and V, so once I’m inside I take a minute to get my bearings. Lots of dark wood, comfortable-looking overstuffed leather furniture, and, of course, books. Soft guitar music drifts in from the wine bar next door, and I make a mental note to check it out some other time. When I’m not a man on a mission.
I take a few more steps inside and spot a coffee station in one corner, near the mystery section. Probably where I’ll find that Ruth Ware book for my mom.
I start to make my way over there, needing a little more time to figure out exactly what I’m going to say to Kolby. But the same damn universe that brought me here tonight is clearly conspiring against me because the guy I’m trying to avoid is suddenly blocking my path.
“Welcome to Vino and Veritas,” he says with a lopsided grin that I want to smack—or kiss—off his handsome face. “Can I help you find something? A book, perhaps? We have an excellent sports section with several hockey biographies. Or maybe one of our scented candles? They’re very popular with the ladies. That is, if you’re looking for a gift for someone special.”
For a flash, his cocky swagger gives way to uncertainty, and I get the feeling he’s fishing for clues about what team I play for. But it vanishes as quickly as it appears and he’s back to his overconfident, egotistical self.
He leans against a bookshelf and folds his arms across his chest, drawing my attention to the skin and sinew beneath the neatly rolled up-sleeves of his shirt. I’ve never considered a guy’s forearms a turn-on before Kolby. It’s a casual, understated, not-trying-too-hard sexy. The pushed-up sleeves say, “Who needs biceps when you’ve got these babies to get shit done?”
I’m so damn busy staring at his fucking forearms, it takes me a second to realize his mouth is moving again.
“Or did you come here looking for me?” he asks, the crooked grin back on his lips. “We could grab a drink at the bar next door when I get off work.”
His directness catches me off balance. I’m not used to guys like him. Guys who come right out and tell you who they are and what they want. It’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time, like riding a roller coaster.
“I’m, uh, looking for a book for my mother,” I finally manage to choke out. “It’s her birthday next week.”
A shadow flickers across Kolby’s delicate features, but then he’s all business. “Anything in particular? What does she like to read? We’ve got a pretty extensive romance section, if she’s into that.”
Ew. I do not want to think of my mother reading romance novels. And even if she does, I’m sure as hell not buying her one. That’s just—ew.
Not that there’s anything wrong with romance books. But it’s like picturing your parents having sex. You know they’ve done it. Your very existence proves it. It’s just not something you want to dwell too much on.
“I thought maybe I’d get her Ruth Ware’s new book,” I say. “I know she hasn’t read it yet. She’s on a waiting list at the library.”
“Good choice. It’s one of our staff picks. Follow me.”
He leads me to a shelf up front near the register. There’s an eclectic variety of books—one about a grandmother who hiked the Appalachian Trail three times, a YA zombie fantasy set in post-Gettysburg America, one with the strangely compelling titleHow Carrots Won the Trojan War: Curious (but True) Stories of Common Vegetables—each with a sign identifying the staff member who selected it and briefly stating why.
