Which is inconvenient, because I’m usually excellent at basic questions. Where’s the bathroom? Do you have the new thriller with the red cover? Can you order a book if I only remember that the author’s name maybe starts with an S? But this man standing in the middle of my bookstore has made my brain stop working.
I should say no. I met him this morning after he caught me scrubbing an insult off my window, which is not the ideal foundation for romance. He’s also large enough to block a doorway without trying, intense enough to make silence feel loaded, and stubborn in a way that should annoy me more than it does.
But he stayed all day.
He didn’t crowd me. He didn’t treat me as incompetent. He bought books, watched the door, carried a box of overstock without asking, and made the store feel entirely secure just by being in it. I told myself I didn’t need that. I still believe I don’t, technically.
Want, unfortunately, has a very different opinion.
Connor waits for my answer, his eyes steady on mine. He has the kind of face made for hard decisions, full of strong lines, dark stubble, and a mouth that doesn’t smile without meaning it. I don’t want to be attracted to him. I don’t want to deal with any men for a while. The last man who decided he deserved access to me wrote a slur on my window when I refused to give it.
But Connor isn’t him.
“We can grab a bite to eat at the place around the corner,” I say, hearing the caution in my own voice. “It’s casual.”
His expression shifts, not quite a smile, but close enough to change the room. “Sounds perfect.”
I turn away before my face can reveal too much and start shutting down the store. “I need to lock the back, turn off the register, and grab my bag. Try not to buy anything else while unsupervised.”
He picks up one of the paperbacks from the front table and turns it over in his hand. “No promises.”
By the time I finish, Connor has moved to the front window. He isn’t staring at the place where the paint was, exactly, but I can tell he’s aware of it. His attention takes in the street, the parked cars, the reflected shelves behind him. It should feel excessive. Instead, the tension I’ve been carrying since this morning continues to ease.
Outside, he waits while I lock the door, then falls into step beside me. The sidewalk is busier now, with dinner traffic starting. Connor walks on the street side without making a performance of it.
“So,” I say as we pass the darkened bakery windows. “Ex-military bodyguard with a sudden passion for independent bookstores. That’s a very specific character profile.”
“Private security,” he says, his gaze shifting briefly to a car idling at the curb. “Mostly personal protection. Some event work. Corporate travel. Threat assessment.”
“Threat assessment sounds intense.”
“It can be boring.”
“Somehow I don’t believe you’re bored very often.”
His mouth tugs at one corner. “I’m bored constantly. Shallow conversations. Loud rooms. People who talk to fill space.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to a woman who talks to customers for a living.”
Connor looks down at me, and I feel it in my ribs. “You don’t talk to fill space.”
That shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does. We reach the restaurant before I can decide what to do with it, and I’m grateful for the noise when we step inside. The place is warm and bright, with red vinyl booths, framed photos on the walls, and the familiar smell of grilled onions and coffee. I choose a booth near the middle of the room.
The server drops off menus, and I order iced tea because wine feels too date-y. Connor asks for coffee, which makes me lower my menu.
“It’s evening,” I say.
He sets his menu down without opening it. “I know.”
“You drink coffee at night?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sleep?”
“When necessary.”
“That’s horrifying.”
