Absolutely. It’s good to have you back, my man.
AUTUMN:
You volunteered to co-chair, Zachary.CO-CHAIR.
ZACH:
Er… no I didn’t. I said I’d help. Nobody said anything about chairs.
AUTUMN:
You’re an idiot. 3pm at the Salty Dog. Be there. Or I swear I’ll make you regret it.
SADIE
“You’ve got two minutes, Red. Two minutes until I start hunting you down. And when I find you, you’ll be too busy screaming to run away from me again.”
I blink at the words on the page. It’s surprising how stupidly hot this book is. And no, I shouldn’t be reading it when I’m behind the counter, smiling at customers who walk in looking for a sweet vacation read, but it’s addictive, dammit.
Thank God they have no idea I’m reading beautifully written smut, imagining I’m being chased by a hot, muscled hunter, frantically turning the pages because I’m desperate for the moment that she gets caught.
Because the one bonus of being a shop owner is the freedom to sample the merchandise. It almost makes up for the stupidly long working hours, the panic every time a bill comes in, and having to deal with customers who bringbooks back after reading them because ‘it really wasn’t their thing.’
“Aren’t you going to be late?” Romy asks, wandering in from the storage closet. She puts a stack of books on the counter and rolls onto her tiptoes, peeking over to see what I’m doing. When she sees the title of the book I’ve got clasped between my sweaty palms she smirks.
“Told you it was good.” Her brows lift. “Have you got to that bit with the rope and the two trees yet?” Her grin is wicked.
My mouth goes dry. “No,” I lie.
“Of course you have,” she says, laughing. “You’re bright red.”
I snap the book closed before she can see the page number. “I was doing research. This is our best selling book this week. It’s important to understand our customers’ wants.”
Romy props her elbows on the counter. “Of course it is. But now you need to go. Because it’s…” she glances at the clock behind me “Five minutes past three. Which means Autumn is probably three seconds away from hunting you down herself.”
“Damn.” I shove the book under the counter. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I did.” She picks up a pen and points it at me. “You just weren’t listening. You were too busy being chased through the forest by a hot angry guy.”
“Shut up,” I say.
I flip her off on my way to the door, the bell jangling behind me. Outside, the spring air hits my cheeks, feeling sharp and salty against my skin. I break into a half-run down Main Street, muttering under my breath about fictional men and real deadlines.
I’m not a bad runner. In school I ran cross-country, mostly because I couldn’t throw or catch a ball to save my life. But as an adult, running has always been for a reason. To keep my weight down – thank you, asshole ex – or to make up for being late, like today.
I’ve never really paid attention to how it actually makes me feel. But as I sprint down Main Street in jeans and sneakers, my feet thudding against the pavement, my hair flying behind me, something shifts. My body knows this rhythm. This push and pull. The way muscles tighten and release. The way air floods in and out like it’s been waiting for this reminder.
And yes, somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about that book. About her run. I can almost feel it. The thrill. The heat. The knowledge that she’s being hunted by someone strong enough to catch her, and gentle enough not to hurt her when he does.
It’s less than a minute before I reach the Salty Dog Beach Bar where today’s committee meeting is taking place. But I’m still buzzing with the leftover adrenaline when I slow outside. My chest is tight, my pulse pounding like I’m the one being hunted. The glass doors reflect a flushed, windswept version of me, cheeks pink, hair escaping its clip. I drag in a deep breath, trying to steady the wild rhythm of my heart.
Inside, I can see the committee gathered around the long wooden table by the windows, sunlight spilling across the varnished floor. Autumn’s dark hair bent over her notes. Mylene with a clipboard. Jesse, the young guy who runs the ferry looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
And one more person. Zach Fitzgerald.
He’s sitting at the far end, one hand wrapped around amug like he owns the room. His gaze lifts as I push open the door, and for a second the air feels too thin.
All that talk of running and chasing suddenly doesn’t seem so theoretical anymore.
