“Glasses?”
I nod. “Trying to go incognito.”
“Because that worked so well for you just now?” The corner of her mouth lifts. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I slept on my brother’s couch.”
Izzy snorts. “Being Mr. Tough Guy is hard, isn’t it?”
I know she’s teasing, but there’s a hint of sincerity there too.
“Been busy today?”
Her cheeks instantly turn red. She swipes her shaggy black bangs out of her eyes. “Yes. And a lot of questions about that photo of us…”
A couple walks in, and she rushes off to help them, leaving me standing there. My pulse won’t settle, and my stupid glasses keep sliding down my nose. I’m half convinced the only reason I visited this morning was because being near her makes everything else feel less loud. Dragon dildos aside, the bookshop feels warm and a touch magical—like Izzy—and I just want to get to know her. Though I’m pretty sure she hates that idea.
It’s probably a bad idea. But I love bad ideas.
When she’s finished, she folds her arms. “So?”
“You know,” I say, leaning back against a pink shelf, “if people already think we’re together, we should just take advantage of that.”
She pauses, confusion melting into a half laugh. “What?”
“You know, I think being with me brings business to your store. And being with you would make me seem a little more approachable.”
“Less of a fuckboy,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Maybe someone who doesn’t have their head up their ass?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I mutter.
She laughs and throws her hands up. “Sometimes the truth hurts, bub.”
I chuckle.
“Yeah, well…” My gaze drifts to the Mr. Darcy bobblehead in the window. He gives me his judgmental little nod, and I hate how seen I feel by a piece of plastic.
She turns away to straighten a display, and for the first time all morning, I let myself admit wanting her help feels like wanting her. Before I lose my nerve, I push off the pink bookshelf and walk up to the counter and plant my hands across the marble top.
“I have a proposal for you.”
Chapter 8
Izzy
Aproposal.
My mind short-circuits, or maybe it’s just the fact that I can smell his crisp cologne.
Jack’s wearing a thin, cream pullover sweater, worn jeans, and brown boots. I understand now why he has those underwear and watch campaigns. He hasn’t shaved yet, so there’s dark stubble along his jaw. I thought his blue eyes were mesmerizing before, but now, with his gold-rimmed glasses, I can’t stop staring.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
“I’ll listen,” I say finally, proud of myself when my voice doesn’t waver. It doesn’t matter that I’m holding myself up because my legs feel like Jell-O. “What kind of proposal?” I cross my arms, trying to ignore how the morning light catches his hair, turning it almost golden. I need to sound professional, not like someone whose brain just turned to static because Jack Murphy walked into her bookstore looking like a Brooks Brothers ad come to life.
Another group of customers walks into the store. It’s madness today. Nosy neighbors, curious out-of-towners, jokesfrom Zoe, pings on social media about that dumb photo spreading like wildfire.
We turn around and flash friendly smiles. The woman sends a not-so-subtle elbow into her friend’s side before they duck into the romantasy section.
