I’m dumbfounded. The man noticed my flowers were droopy?
“They’re perfect.” Now I feel awkward. Like … What are you even supposed to do? Is this the first time a man has given me flowers? Really, it’s anyone’s best guess.
“I’ll just go put them in water. Um… I’m almost ready. You never said, you know, what time Betsy wanted you in, but if you want, we could walk together?”
I glance up from the flowers to watch a slow, sweet smile cross his face.
“I’d love it.”
“Great. That’s great. I’m just going to… “ I gesture vaguely towards the bathroom. “finish getting ready.”
Why am I like this?!?
I scurry away, back to the bathroom, to deal with myflowers. I feel like it means a lot more to me than the gesture intended and I don’t know what to do with that. Like any self-respecting female, I toss it in the mental box of “shit to deal withnever” and try to focus on finishing my makeup. I need to look more like a person and less like “I’ll let you cross my bridge if you can answer my three riddles” if anyone is going to buy a book from me.
Or if I maybe, possibly, kind of, probably, may want to see how this attraction to Flint could play out.
Ten minutes later, I’m ready to go. I mean, sort of. I am physically ready, but I need to hunt down all my shit. Flint is completely unbothered, having picked his book back up and made himself comfortable on the edge of the couch. Great. He can watch me run around like an idiot, trying to remember where I put everything.
What is this object permanence you speak of?
I have most of it tossed into my bag in short order but my keys. My keys. My keys. I pat the pockets of my ripped skinny jeans like they’re hiding somewhere — as though there is somewhere in these pants to hide. Did I wear them in hopes that, just maybe, Flint will find some time today to notice how great they make my ass look?
Maybe.
Stop judging me.
I hear a jingle and whip around. Flint is standing in the kitchen, gently shaking my keys in his hand.
One more point to his side of the scoreboard. Damn it anyway. The man makes coffee before I have to wake upandcan find my lost shit?
Is it too early to propose?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After giving him a week to settle in, by Betsy Decree, my job for now is to train Flint on how to work the bookshop. Which would normally not be an issue except I’m stupidly attracted to him and I can feel him watching me when I’m engaged with patrons. And yes, I am in fact saying that as though I’m not watching him at every possible opportunity too.
He also finds small ways to touch me throughout the day, always careful to gauge my reaction, to makesure he isn’t being too forward. Considering the steamy kiss we’ve already shared, I don’t feel like he’s being forward enough, but I appreciate the sentiment. At home, he’s largely the perfect gentleman (so far at least), although even there he finds reasons and opportunities to give me a friendly kisses on the cheek or forehead, or wrap me in those strong arms for a quick hug.
To my surprise, given that the man claims to be from a fictional made up place I created, he picks up on things around the shop quickly.
I’ve avoided picking his brain about Goira and what happens there for a multitude of reasons. One, being that I’m pretty sure either he’s crazy, or I am, and I don’t really want to find out which it is. For another, I don’t want his answers to change the story I’m trying to write.
Ever since Flint started sleeping on my couch, I sleep incredibly well and wake up feeling refreshed. Maybe it’s the fallacy of belief that a man being in the apartment means I’m protected and, therefore, I can relax fully and sleep deeper. Maybe sexual frustration and unrequited attraction makes for a great sleep aid. I don’t know.
The writing has been going surprisingly well. I do know that my scenes seem to be coming a lot easier since he appeared in my life. Maybe it’s just easier to write about a hot warrior man when there’s one camped out reading ten feet away most evenings. Maybe it’s easier to write when your brain cells aren’t sleep deprived. Either way, it’s been going well. Not “I have a cohesive story line” well, but well enough. It’s still an improvement and I’m choosing to focus on that. Silver lining and all that happy optimist bullshit.
Flint and Annemarie hit it off right away, which had been a mild concern. Annemarie was so warm andwelcoming when I stumbled across my job here that we’d quickly become best friends. She has a bohemian hippie vibe about her, which camouflages her bloodthirsty and slightly terrifying personality. Despite the fact that many men – and quite a few women – find her intimidating, she always seems to have a steady supply of dates. I should have known better than to think she’d intimidate Flint. They’ve bonded and he grants her cautious respect. She, in turn, gives me meaningful looks behind his back, including eyebrow wiggles.
She pinned me in the cafe one day last week, insisting that she could make me a charm bag so I could “hit that”. I wished to melt and disappear into a puddle of mortified goo, but alas, that was not a wish granted. Instead, I had dumbly shook my head. Annemarie had tossed her glorious fall of hair over her shoulder before crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes on me.
“You think I don’t see you watching him? You think I don’t see him watching you back? I know what I know, girl, and that man issmitten. You’re already living together. It’s just a matter of time. Personally, I think you should’ve given him a long ride before letting him move in.” She smiled wickedly.
Thankfully, at that point, Calida – somehow hidden from view – had popped out of one of the cupboards that Annemarie keeps her baking supplies in and caused enough of a ruckus with Annemarie’s following meltdown that I was able to escape that conversation.
It also doesn’t hurt that Flint’s charm and good looks is bringing in business. There has been a definite increase in the female population who visit the bookshop on a daily basis. If I were a jealous person, it wouldprobably bother me that so many stop in just to check out my… roommate.
Right. We’re just roomies.
