Page 65 of The Overtime Persuasive

She glares at the screen while Vivaldi’s “Autumn” fills the store—a detail I know only because the album cover is propped beneath her WHAT’S PLAYING sign.

“I always wondered if it was you who made me mad at anything small and overly precious. Took me ages to get used to Mitch.”

“You two didn’t have to stay in the room. I don’t recall forcing you to watch it, I only hit play.” She shakes her head, pretending to ignore me and our history as I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. “Want help?”

“No. I’ll get it done.”

My eyebrows knit together. “Sometimes we need help, Eva, and it’s okay to say yes if it’s offered.”

“Well,” she says, taking the time to turn and look me directly in my eyes. “I’m not saying yes. I’m saying I’ll be right here, continuing with what I need to do until it is done.”

I take in the mess around her. “How’s that going?”

She points the calculator at me. “You are one more comment away from me tossing this thing at your head, while you run from me.”

Surrendering, I lift my hands and step back. I know when to quit pushing. Maybe not on the ice, but in the real world, I can take the hint.

Side B is busy enough today that Eva can’t stay focused on her books for long. A woman comes in who needs help finding a mystery novel for her mother. Two men stop by after work looking for an album neither can remember the name of, and a little girl spends ten minutes deciding between two bookmarks before convincing her father she needs both.

Sensing that Eva can only focus on one aspect of the day at a time, I start a familiar project. The boxes. It’s a no-brainer as my Dad would say: I fold cardboard, place labels, and then tell myself not to look at her every thirty seconds.

Newsflash—I look at her every ten.

Eva laughs at something the woman says in the book room, pulling my attention in that direction. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and walks back toward the counter––

And my mind immediately supplies the memory of that same hair wet from the rain and wrapped around my fingers.

I press a label down crooked. “Crap.”

Eva glances over. “Everything okay?”

“Sooo good,” I lie as her gaze lands on the label. “I can fix that.”

“Interesting.” Her eyes move slowly over my face, and the corner of her mouth lifts. “Considering you’re always reminding me that hockey players have excellent hand-eye coordination.”

“We do.”

“What happened?” she asks, pointing to it, her tone playful. “Were you distracted?”

Distracted by what? The curve of her body? The way her laugh gets under my skin? The memory of her hand sliding across my chest? Or the fact that I’ve spent the last ten minutes wanting to cross the space between us, kiss her, and catch that smart little lower lip between mine just to give it a soft⁠—

Nope. We’re not finishing that thought.

I clear my throat. “No.”

Grinning, she turns away before I can respond, and I groan inwardly. This woman is going to ruin me.

For years, wanting her was safe because nothing ever happened. Eva kept her distance. I teased her. She rolled her eyes. I could imagine what it might be like without risking the answer.

But things have changed, because now I know.

I know how she tastes. I know the sound she makes when I kiss beneath her ear. I know she wakes up thinking about me because she admitted as much after the game, her cheeks turning pink while she tried to make it sound like a complaint.

Wanting her isn’t theoretical anymore; however, neither is the possibility that I could lose her.

The bell rattles as another customer enters, and I force my attention back to the box in front of me. By six, the store settles into a quieter rhythm. One man browses the records while another customer carries an armful of romances toward the register.

Eva rings her up, then returns to the laptop.