Page 11 of Catching Flynn

He bloomed awkwardly.

And that made Zavier want to cup both hands around him like something precious the world had been too rough with.

“Looking for anything specific, or just browsing?” his mate called out.

“Browsing, I think. Do you have anything like Where the Crawdads Sing?”

“Literary fiction, atmospheric, some mystery, strong sense of place.” Flynn was already moving, a little sway in his hips. “Follow me.”

Stop thinking about spreading his naked body under you like a buffet.

His tiger purred.

Zavier turned back to the fiction section and worked through it methodically, pulling books that were shelved in clearly wrong places and stacking them on the floor to be redistributed. The work was simple and satisfying. It let his attention wander elsewhere.

Elsewhere meaning his mate.

Across the store, Flynn was pulling books from a shelf and handing them over one at a time, giving a two-sentence pitch for each. His hands moved when he talked. Not wild gestures, just small, expressive movements that punctuated his words. The customer laughed at something he said, and his mate grinned.

Colton had told Zavier how baffled Flynn seemed about being targeted. How could his mate not see just how breathtaking he truly was? Silky brown hair that framed his face in a way that accentuated his angles perfectly. High cheekbones, soft lips, and warm, expressive emerald eyes.

Fantastic. Zavier was standing in a dusty bookstore with a hard-on from hell.

After the lady left, Flynn walked past the shelf, then paused and looked at what Zavier had done. “You alphabetized it.”

“By last name.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be done.” Flynn sounded mildly offended on behalf of the previous system.

“Yep.” Crouching, Zavier slid the book into place without comment.

“Not a fan of chaos?” Flynn asked.

“Chaos doesn’t bother me.” Zavier moved a misplaced thriller three sections over and filed it correctly. “Hides treasures worth discovering.”

Zavier wasn’t intimidated by the damage his mate masked with humor. In his line of work, he’d dealt with plenty of inner scars. To him, they were signs of strength, of surviving a very dark time in the person’s life.

Flynn stared at him for a long moment, pain and anger flashing behind his green eyes. “You’re a bodyguard, not a treasure hunter. Stick to your job and leave my chaos alone.”

The front door opened again, bell overhead giving a flat little ring, and a man in a postal uniform came through carrying a rubber-banded bundle of mail and a small package.

“Morning, Flynn.” The carrier set the bundle on the counter and flipped through it briefly. “Got a good stack today. And hey,” he said, pulling out a glossy folded brochure, “looks like someone’s getting a vacation.”

Flynn stared a second longer, pleading with his eyes for Zavier to listen.

“Go get the mail,” Zavier murmured. “I’ll respect your boundaries, Flynn.”

“You will?” Flynn stared incredulously at him. “Um, thank you?”

“Um, you’re welcome,” Zavier teased then sobered. “Bodyguard doesn’t mean choices are taken away. It means securing your safety and putting my foot up his ass.”

“Kick him in the nuts, too.” Flynn spun and headed toward the counter.

Zavier didn’t move from the shelf, but his attention sharpened.

“Oh, exciting. Where am I going?” Flynn asked.

“Looks like a beach resort thing. One of those all-inclusive mailers.” The carrier held it up. “Not bad.”