I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly regretting the fact I didn’t just walk on by. Why can’t I ever just walk the fuck by? I don’t know how many times Hen has grabbed me by the cheeks and chanted, “Not your circus, not your monkeys, Vannah-Banana,”right in my face.
Not my circus, not my nervous AF and sweating profusely book-searching, potential criminal monkey. And yet here we are.
“I’m looking for a book by Saxon James.”
Luckily for perspiring dude, I’m a whale—someone who reads at least a book a week—an ARC team member for many indie authors, and an avid reader of steamy sports romance of all flavors, which means I know exactly who he’s talking about.
“They have a special section for—” Ah. That’s when it hits me like a smack upside the head. Saxon writes gay romance. The pleading in this kid’s eyes silently begging me to stop talking out loud causes my heart to constrict so much I’m afraid it might stop working.
I give him a warm smile. “How about you tell me which book you’re looking for, and I’ll go get it for you, okay?”
The relief in the guy’s face is real as his body sags and he nods. “It’s calledPresidential Chaos.”
I pat his biceps as I pass him, desperate to give him some kind of comfort in the moment. I want to tell him there’s no need to be afraid, there’s no reason for him to be ashamed. I want to say that I believe love is love, and there is no judgment when you’re in the safe space of a bookshop but the words feel empty, hollow in my mouth.
So I stay quiet, make my way to the LGBTQ+ section of the store, and scan their selection. They have it on the table display. In fact, they have both the smokin’ hot man-bod cover and Saxon’s adorable illustrated cover as well.
I’m guessing this guy’s an illustrated cover kinda reader. I pick up a copy, and am ready to make my way back to the stranger standing in the steamy romance aisle when the hottie on the cover ofShameless Puckboy—by Saxon and her co-writer bestie Eden Finley—makes eyes at me.
Not today, Satan.
I close my eyes and shake my head. Chant to myself in a resolute whisper. “I don’t need any more books. I don’t need any more books. I don’t need any more books. I don’t…need… Fuck it.”
I snatch the delicious puck boy from the top of the stack on the table and lift the book so it’s at eye level. “You really are shameless.”
I hurry back to where I left the guy standing, hoping he hasn’t fled the scene in the meantime. He’s moved to the end of the aisle and inched himself toward the crime section, but he stayed where I could see him when I returned.
My heart squeezes as I hand him the book and again at the gratitude painted all over his face. He hugs the book against his chest before making eye contact for a beat. “I’m just…not ready yet.”
The flexing organ in my ribcage threatens to burst at this poor man’s vulnerability. I want to hug him, to squeeze him until he feels better. I want to give him my number and tell him I can be there for him. But I don’t want to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already does. So I press down my urge to help him somehow.
Instead, I blink back the tears forming in my eyes and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I know you didn’t really choose to share this with me, but thank you anyway.”
He nods, pausing like he wants to say something else, an awkwardness hanging heavy between us in the aisle of the store, and then he’s gone.
I lean against the end of the bookshelf for a long moment, gathering my thoughts and emotions. Gravity pulls at my ass, and the temptation to slide down the wood and plonk myself right there on the floor ofThe Book Binis strong. But I don’t. I don’t have time to dwell on the agony in the stranger’s eyes.
I need to haul ass out of there before other books make eyes at me and silently plead for me to take them home.
My resolve was strong when I walked in, but now… Now I have one book cuddled against my body and two more are calling me from the end of the steamy aisle. I saw them on TikTok, and I’m tempted… I just…can’t…
“Want a job?” A woman’s voice pulls my attention to the next aisle next over. She grunts as she pulls herself to her feet with a groan and presses her flat palm against her lower back, stretching out.
I look around but no one else is there. Is she talking to me?
“Yes, you.” She smiles at me, and I feel sunshine in my bones. “Any chance you’d be interested in a part-time job?”
I’ve been in The Bin, as it’s affectionately termed, more than my share of times over the years, so I know for a fact this isn’t common practice. I’ve never been offered a job free with purchase before.
She wants me to work here? Surrounded by all this temptation? Is she insane?
I almost laugh. I’ve been searching for a job all summer. I want to save money, build security, and here the book dealer is standing in front of me and offering me a job where I would undoubtedly spend more than I made.
“You handled that situation very well. Better than I probably would have. You’d be surprised at the amount of shame people bring with them to the bookstore.” She shrugs. “Compassion is a pretty big deal inside these walls.”
Her name tag tells me her name is Frieda, and she nails me with another one of those body-hugging smiles. “We hired a new guy a few months ago. I tried to hire another two but”—she shrugs—“they never showed up.”
I glance around the store. It’s my first time here so far this semester, but it’s always been one of my favorite places to spend time. And God knows I need a job now that I’m actively avoiding my parents. The reliable flutter of rage ignites in my stomach, and I’m grounded in my righteous indignation. How could they keep such ahugepiece of my identity a secret from me for all those years? Who does that?
