I blink. My pen hovers over a half-signed book that no longer has an owner standing behind it.
“What just…” I turn to Katie, who is craning her neck toward the commotion. “Did I do something? Did I say something weird? I said something weird, didn’t I?”
“Hold on.” Katie takes three steps toward the crowd, then stops. “Oh.”
“Katie. Ohwhat?”
“There’s a… someone just walked in. A man. They’re all crowding around him.” She squints. “He’s wearing a cap. Can’t really see his face. But he’s tall. And the energy over there is…” She pauses, searching for the word. “Hormonal.”
I stand up from my chair, which is a mistake because I’m short and standing doesn’t meaningfully improve my line of sight. I watch the back of the crowd. Phones are out. Someone is giggling at a pitch only dogs should be able to hear. There’s awhite-toothed grin visible above the sea of heads, a baseball cap, broad shoulders in a fitted Henley, and the distinct impression of a man who is used to being looked at and finds the whole thing privately amusing.
My stomach clenches. Every single person who was waiting for me has crossed the shop to orbit a stranger, and the rejection is swift, a door swinging shut in my face. I should be used to it by now. The internet taught me what it feels like to be discarded mid-sentence. But this is in person, in real time, and I’m sitting behind a table with a small flower vase and a pyramid of books that suddenly nobody wants.
“Well,” I say to no one. “That’s fine.”
My eyes sting. I sit back down and pretend to organize the stack, aligning corners that don’t need aligning, and I’m contemplating whether it’s possible to leave my own book signing without anyone noticing when the crowd shifts and someone separates from it, suddenly strolling toward me. Moving with an easy, unhurried stride.
He’s carrying my book too.
Dark hair is visible under the cap, some of it falling across his forehead. His jaw is sharp, eyes reminiscent of a tropical sea blue, and a smile lights up his whole face with warmth. His mouth is softer than the rest of him, full enough to have me staring too long, while his shoulders strain the seams of his shirt. The guy is buff and crazy handsome.
He sets the book on my table. “I think I owe you an apology,” he says, and his voice is low and husky, my stomach suddenly filled with butterflies beating their wings too quickly. Who in the world is this handsome man? “I seem to have accidentally kidnapped your entire queue.”
“Accidentally?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a miracle.
“Completely.” He grins sinfully, dimples appearing on his cheeks. “I didn’t even know there was an event happening until everyone suddenly wanted to talk to me, and then I looked over and saw you sitting here alone and felt terrible about it.” He taps the cover of my book with one finger. “So I bought this. Least I can do for disrupting your afternoon.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I wanted to.” He pushes the book toward me. “Would you sign it?”
“Of course.” I pick up the pen. My heart is thundering to a rhythm that no cardiologist would approve of. Behind him, the crowd has followed and is forming a new line, some of them holding my book, others clearly just here because he is, and every single one of them is watching this interaction with intensity.
“What’s your favorite recipe from the book?” he asks, leaning one hip against the edge of the table, arms folded, head tilted. Is he tensing his biceps on purpose? Damn, they are huge, though. His full attention is on me, and it’s overwhelming, my body burning up suddenly.
“The sweet buns,” I say, because it’s true. It’s the recipe I’ve made most in my life, the one I can do blindfolded, as it smells exactly the way Saturday mornings are supposed to.
A woman three people back in line lets out a half laugh. “Oh, I canseesome sweet buns,” she says, and her friend claps a hand over her mouth. Several people burst out laughing.
While the hunk in front of me, this ridiculous, grinning stranger who has just waltzed into my book signing and rearranged the entire room around himself, lets out a low chuckle without breaking eye contact with me. The sound slides under my skin, far too intimate for a man whose name I don’t even know. My thoughts scatter. My pulse trips. I can’t seem to think straight, not with that delicious blue gaze locked on mineas if he’s found the one person in this room he actually wants to see. Heat curls low in my belly, startling and sharp, because he could ask me to do anything right now and I’d get on my knees for him. Which is not me at all. I don’t lose my mind over handsome men with cocky smiles.
So why does every sensible part of me feel like it just surrendered?
My face is burning. “It’s my favorite. Not the… the buns are my favorite because they’re bread. They’re a bread product. A completely normal, non-scandalous bread product.”
“I’m sure they are.” He raises one thick eyebrow.
Fantastic. I’ve been in his presence for less than three minutes and have already defended the moral integrity of buns.
I open the cover, pretending I’m a composed professional and not a woman who should be legally banned from speaking near attractive men. The pen trembles slightly in my fingers. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Brody.”
I write the name, and my hand keeps moving, carried by momentum.To Brody. With love, Claire Darling.I draw a small heart after my name because, apparently, I have lost all control of my motor functions and my dignity in one go.
I close the cover and hand it back. He takes it, glances at the inscription, and his grin widens into a full smile.
“With love,” he reads aloud. “I’ll treasure that.”
