I'm a lady. No way can I tell him a filthy shifter romance is already calling to me.
“Best way to do it.”
I smile. “You’re a bookstore person?”
“I’m a bookstore, coffee, and sit there and read a chapter while I ignore life person.”
“Okay, that was weirdly specific.”
“It’s the best kind of Saturday.”
I like that answer.
He glances down, and his expression shifts. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you seeing anyone? Interested in anyone? Spoken for? Married?”
My heart does a weird stutter-step. “Um. No to all of the above. Why?”
He gestures to the small diamond ring on my left ring finger.
“Oh.” I lift my hand. “No. This was my gram's. I need to have it cleaned, so I’m wearing it as a reminder to do that. And considering I've been wearing it for two months, the reminder isn't working," I laugh. "Guess I should follow through.”
“Ah.” His smile returns. “Perfect.”
“What’s perfect?”
“That you’re not taken.” He says it like the answer is obvious. “Because I’d like to take you to dinner.”
I stare at him. “I don’t even know you.”
“Not yet.” His smile is warm, steady. “But that’s kind of the point of dinner, isn’t it? Getting to know each other?”
Yeah. I've read too many thriller books and watched too many murder mysteries to jump at the offer. Stranger danger is a thing. I don't want to wind up on a Netflix documentary where they try to solve my disappearance, never figuring out that I wound up trapped in Hot Porsche Guy’s basement being reminded to put the lotion on so he can take my skin.
“How about this,” he says, noticing my hesitation. “Let me meet you at Barnes & Noble. We can get coffee. Talk. Get to know each other a little. Then maybe, if you don’t think I’m completely insane, we can discuss dinner.”
“Okay… but for the record, that is still a little insane, actually.”
“Sure. But in a charming way.”
“You think? Seems kind of like a bold claim.”
“I’ve been called charming before.”
“Yeah, I just bet you have,” I say, the sarcasm in my tone evident.
He grins, and I hate that it works on me. A car passes slowly, the driver craning their neck to look at us. Right. Accident. Public road. Reality. I glance at his bumper again. “We should probably still exchange insurance information.”
“Definitely.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number.”
“That is not how exchanging insurance works.”
“It’s how this version works.”
I try not to smile and fail. Then I rattle off my number, and watch as he types it in. A second later, my phone buzzes.
