“Not yet.”
He grinned. “You saying I’d have better luck with a John Cusack moment?”
I stood and turned to face him fully, arms crossed.
The corner of my mouth twitched, fighting a smile I didn’t want to give him. “Funny,” I said lightly, “you don’t strike me as the ‘romantic gesture’ type.”
He stepped closer — not too close, not enough to draw attention, but enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his eyes.
“I’m full of surprises,” he murmured. His voice was lower now. Rougher. Like maybe the cool, unbothered act was slipping just a little.
“Mm.” I made a show of setting a book on the shelf, slow and deliberate. “So what is this, then? A nostalgic little field trip? Come to relive your glory days in the indie romance aisle?”
He leaned in, just slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see if the girl in the ancient shirt was as interesting sober.”
I stilled, pulse kicking up at my throat. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Well,” I said, backing up a step I immediately regretted. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m much less charming when I’m not fueled by bad wine and feminist rage.”
“Disagree,” he said softly. “I think you might be even worse for me now.”
My breath caught.
And just like that, the air changed — thickened — warped into that same feeling from the convention, the beat-before-a-kiss kind of energy. Like something sharp and inevitable was just over the edge of the moment.
But then, like the bastard he is, he smiled.
“I should go,” he said, straightening. “Wouldn’t want the internet to catch me loitering in the romance section. They’d think I was becoming self-aware.”
I found my voice again, barely. “Or human.”
He started walking backward, still watching me. “Now that’s just cruel, Juniper Haddock.”
My full name on his lips. Again. God.
“Come by again,” I said before I could stop myself.
He paused, one hand already on the door. “Careful,” he said, flashing one last grin. “I might start thinking you like me.”
The door chimed shut behind him.
And I hated that I was still smiling ten minutes later.
CHAPTER 8
Ibarely made it to the end of the block before regret hit me like a truck.
I’d made it out of the bookstore thinking I was being suave — smooth, even. A little flirty, a little mysterious. Just breezy enough not to seem desperate. Like I hadn’t thought about her at all since the convention.
Which, of course, was a lie. A boldfaced, idiot-tier lie.
I should’ve said more.Actuallytold her aboutThe Way We Move. Told her I was shooting just a few blocks from here. That I’d been half a second from ducking into the alley when I saw the name “Figments” on the window, recognizing the storefront from her social media — and had to circle the damn block three times before I convinced myself it was actuallyher.
But instead I made some dumb joke, tossed her a line about yearning, and left like I had somewhere better to be. I didn’t even ask for her number.Again.
God, what the hell was wrong with me?
Maybe she hadn’t wanted me to. Maybe she was being polite — flirtatious in the way someone’s flirty with a stranger they’renever planning to see again. That smile of hers — sharp and warm at the same time — maybe it wasn’t formeat all.
