Page 48 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

My heart is pounding. This is stupid. This is so stupid. He’s not going to…

Knock. Knock.

Two sharp raps against the back door, clear as bells, precise as a response.

I burst out laughing.

I can’t help it, it bubbles up out of me, surprised and delighted, and I’m grinning like an idiot at my empty bookstore because a three-hundred-year-old lycan just passed my hearing test, diligent student that he is.

He heard me. From outside. Through a closed door. While I was basically mouthing the words.

Something has shifted in the past week, the fear softening into fascination, the wariness melting into what feels dangerously like trust. I read his FAQ answers until I had them memorized. I traced my fingers over his handwriting, over the little wolf doodle he drew instead of answering question six, over the words that made my chest ache in ways I don’t know how to name.

I’m in trouble.

I’m in so much trouble.

And I’m grinning about it.

Because here’s the thing nobody warns you about: once you’ve seen a man shirtless in your stockroom, twice, your brain keeps the footage. It replays it at inconvenient times. Mid-inventory. Mid-shelving. Right now, apparently, standing at my own register at four in the afternoon, thinking about the trail of dark hair below his navel with enough focus that I have to press my thighs together under the counter and take one slow, careful breath.

You are at WORK. You own this establishment. Have some professional dignity.

My professional dignity left around day five. I don’t miss it.

I’m turning toward the back door, ready to open it, ready to see him, ready to have whatever conversation comes next, when the bell over the front entrance chimes.

Customer.

Right. I have a job. I own a business. I can’t just spend all afternoon conducting hearing experiments on supernatural creatures who lurk outside my building like romantically obsessed gargoyles.

I paste on my customer service smile, the one that says welcome to Fable Tales, please buy something so I can make rent, and turn toward the door.

The smile freezes on my face.

The man walking in is maybe thirty, with a nice coat and an expensive haircut and eyes that slide over me like I’m something for sale. His smile shows too many teeth, doesn’t quite reach those flat eyes, and something about him prickles at the back of my neck, that animal instinct that says wrong, wrong, something’s wrong here.

But I’m a professional. Professionals don’t refuse service to people just because they have weird vibes.

Even though you should. Even though every true crime podcast you’ve ever listened to is screaming at you right now.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my voice bright. “Can I help you find something?”

“Just browsing.” He doesn’t look at the books. He looks at me. His gaze travels slowly down my body and back up again, lingering in places that make my skin crawl. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks.” I keep the smile fixed. “Let me know if you need any recommendations.”

He moves into the store, trailing his fingers along spines in a way that seems more possessive than curious. He’s between me and the front door now. I don’t think he did that by accident.

Stay calm. He’s just browsing. Weird vibes don’t mean anything. You’re overreacting.

“Quiet this time of day,” he observes, glancing around the empty shop. “You always this dead in the afternoons?”

“It picks up around five when people get off work.”

“So right now it’s just you?”

Don’t answer that. That’s exactly the kind of question you’re not supposed to answer.