I know virtually nothing about her other than she makes my blood race when I’m near her, and she’s so very different from any woman I’ve ever been with. More than anything, I think I’m attracted to the way she’s not overtly attracted to me. Yes, that makes her a bit of a challenge, but not in a way I need to win this game.
More like I want to make sure we both win, but first I have to figure out exactly how hard I’m willing to play.
CHAPTER 6
Clarke
“I think you’re really going to enjoy this one, Mrs. Gerber.” I lovingly wrap one of my favorite books of all time, The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, in lavender-colored tissue paper, sealing the edge with an oval sticker that says, “Clarke’s Corner,” and place it in a gift bag.
Mrs. Gerber was one of my very first customers when I opened my door for business, and she comes in at least once a week for a new book. Lately, she’s given up control to me to introduce her to new genres and today, I’m passing off a literary genius of a book, in my humble opinion. I’ve probably read it twenty times, my own paperback copy worn and dog-eared.
“I look forward to it, dear,” she replies, handing over her credit card.
While I ring up the transaction, I keep an eye on two female teenagers who came in a few moments ago. They’re lurking in the back row and giggling about something, probably reading snippets from a sexy romance novel or something.
“Now, Clarke,” Mrs. Gerber says as she leans across the counter a bit, lowering her voice. “My book club was thinking about branching out of our normal brand to try something new.”
“Like what?” I ask. Her book club is made up of little old ladies like herself, who, while they enjoy books, love the social aspect of getting together once a month to nibble on sweetcakes and gossip after their book discussions.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replies breezily, waving a hand covered in expensive rings and dotted with age spots. “We were thinking of maybe trying Fifty Shades of Grey.”
I suck in air so fast I actually end up choking. Mrs. Gerber watches me warily while I pound my own chest and try to apologize through my wheezing.
“Fifty Shades?” I manage to gasp, and I notice the two teenagers in the back have gone absolutely silent. I imagine their heads are tilted, ears pointed in our direction so as not to miss anything. “Do you know what the book is about?”
Mrs. Gerber’s lips flatten, and she gives me a look that causes me to physically shrink back a bit. “I’m old, Clarke, not dead. Of course I know what it is, and why wouldn’t a woman my age be interested in something like that?”
I have no good reply because she’s absolutely right, and I was just stereotyping her based on her age. “You know what,” I drawl as I move out from behind the counter. I move over to the third row of books, where, lo and behold, the two girls are standing and watching me with wide eyes and slide my finger down a row of books. I find what I’m looking for, grab it, and head back to the counter.
Holding it up for Mrs. Gerber to see, I display a hardback edition of Fifty Shades and slide it in her bag. “This one’s on the house. How about you read it first? Then, if you think your book club would like it, I can put in an order for them.”
Mrs. Gerber beams, and I know, without a doubt, The Prince of Tides will not see the light of day for a while.
After I complete the transaction, I walk around the store, making sure nothing has been moved out of place by the browsers who have been in and out today. I’ve got another two hours before I turn the night shift over to my only other employee, Nina, who has been with me from the start. She’s a college student paying her own way through school, and she covers the store for a few hours each evening, Tuesday through Saturday, where we’ll close at nine.
Sundays and Mondays, I close at five.
Finally, the two young girls emerge from the stacks, one with two bright splotches on her cheeks carrying a paperback book. I recognize the romance novel from afar, and I find it slightly adorable they’re embarrassed to be buying it.
I have no clue the true source of the blushes. It could be they’re embarrassed in general to be reading romance, which I think is ridiculous. If this is their first, maybe they’ll come back tomorrow and buy more. Maybe it’s because it has sex scenes and they’ll be getting an education, but Lord knows… I read my mom’s when I was about their age and it’s how I learned about the birds and the bees.
Maybe it’s because they just had a back-row seat to watching an elderly woman requesting Fifty Shades and being proud about doing it.
Whatever the reason, I chat them up as I ring up their purchase, telling them if they enjoy the book, I have more recommendations. And, as I tell every new customer before they leave, “Thank you for shopping here, and I’d really love to have you back.”
I don’t make a rich living off this bookstore, and let’s be honest, most of the money I make is from the products I sell other than books. People nowadays are reading on tablets and phones or listening to audio versions. There’s just not a lot of the same demand for tangible book products as there used to be, but I love having this little independent slice of heaven for those purists who still flip pages as they read.
The bell on the door jingles as they leave, and I move out from behind the counter to once again start tidying things up.
The door opens again, bells merrily chiming, and I turn to welcome my next customer.
It’s a physical jolt to my body to see Aaron Wylde there, all casual, confident, and totally hot.
Totally out of my league.
He has on a pair of cargo shorts, a navy t-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. His wavy blond hair flops boyishly over his forehead, and there’s a layer of stubble across his jawline.
I hadn’t heard from him after our wedding date on Saturday other than a text from him later that night asking if I’d made it home okay. When I’d replied I had, he’d merely responded with…
Awesome. I’ll see you next Saturday. More info to come.
It had rankled me a bit, to be honest, that it was all I got from him. In fairness, I knew I had not given him any indication to believe I was interested in him in any way, and, to be clear, I am not.
But he’d been so insistent on going out with me—to the point of practically entrapping me into a date—that I expected more effort. That got me to thinking that maybe there’s just nothing special about me, so he was taking me saying I wasn’t interested at face value.
Which I am most certainly not.
Still, it plays with a girl’s confidence.
I’m stunned to see him in my store, just out of the blue. Three days after last seeing him without any communication.
Not that I expected any, because no way am I interested.
Sure… I’ve thought about him some.
A moderate amount, actually.
Playing over and over in my head everything he’d said, every action he took, on the last Saturday we spent together. I searched my memory and overanalyzed the situation, trying to locate the tell-tale signs of what I termed to be Famed Douche Affliction.
That disease or defect by which people suffering from an unmitigated case of being an asshole because they feel entitled to be such, be it by way of fame or wealth.
I couldn’t see it within Aaron, but to be fair he would have been on his best behavior.
Maybe I’ll see it now.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, but not in a snotty, unwelcoming way. In a truly surprised, slightly awed kind of way, which is how I’m feeling in this moment.
His teeth flash, expression teasing. “I missed you, too.”
“Never said I missed you,” I quip.
“Maybe not, but I happen to know I’m incredibly charming and funny. I’m sure you missed me just a bit.”
“’Fraid not,” I reply, struggling not to let my lips curl in amusement. He is funny and charming… I’ll give him that.
“Actually,” he says, turning slightly away from me and facing the bo
okshelves. “I thought I would come in to purchase a book. I really should make more time for reading.”
Aaron walks away, disappearing down the first aisle.
I feel compelled to call out to him in warning, “If you’re saying that thinking it will help you get in my pants, I’m telling you it won’t.”
He makes a scoffing sound, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“Need any help?” I ask. Taking a few steps his way, I’m completely unsure as to what to do. If he were an ordinary customer, I’d follow him down the aisle and make a resounding offer of help.
He’s not ordinary, though, and I don’t want him thinking I’m intrigued in any way.
“I’m good,” he calls back, firmly letting me know he does not need or want my attention right now.
Totally confusing.
I resolve myself to ignore his presence—yeah, right—and move to the opposite side of the shop to tinker with shelves laden with picture frames of all shapes and sizes. I move them around, shifting some forward and others back. Totally useless and unneeded work, my ears straining to hear anything from where Aaron is perusing the books.
I finally decide to do something productive, moving back behind the checkout counter to where my laptop is located. After firing it up, I open my inventory report and start making a list of things I need to order.
After about ten minutes, Aaron eventually comes out from the stacks, holding a book. I can’t get a good enough look to identify it. He strolls over to the little reading corner I’d set up, settling down into one of the cushiony chairs there.
He opens the book to the first page. He’s chosen not a literary classic as I thought he would, but rather a Dean Koontz book.
One of my favorites… Intensity.
I just stare as he reads, carefully flipping the pages. After about the fourth page flip, his eyes drift up and over the edge of the book to lock on me.
Blushing deeply, I try to duck my head to focus on my computer screen, but I’m forced to acknowledge him when he asks, “Is it okay if I sit here and read for a bit?”
“Of course,” I reply quickly.
“I was just wondering… since you were staring so hard, I thought I might be doing something wrong.”
“Nope,” I assure him, with a shake of my head so hard, my glasses almost dislodge from my face. “That’s the whole point of the little reading corner. Make sure the book is to your liking before you buy it.”
Aaron smirks as his eyes drift back down.
God, why does he have to look so hot sitting there, reading Dean Koontz and totally ignoring me? And to top it all off, I know he’s behaving this way so he seems cool and mysterious because he thinks it will pique my interest even more.
That may be true, but I refuse to let him know it.
Aaron sits there for almost twenty minutes, slowly reading—probably savoring and hopefully enjoying—the creepiness of Koontz.
Finally, he pushes out of the chair, then saunters over to the checkout counter. I push my laptop aside, letting my gaze settle on the book in his hand. “So what did you think?”
“It’s good,” he replies, setting it on the counter. “I’ll take it.”
“Awesome,” I reply brightly, happy to make a sale to compensate for the way he’s unsettled me since walking in my store. “Is this your first Koontz?”
“Yup,” he replies. “Actually, my first book in a long time. Not sure how I fell so far out of the habit, but let’s just say it’s been years since I’ve picked a book up.”
“I imagine your dad wouldn’t approve of this type of literature given he taught the classics,” I say.
The minute the words are out, I know they’re wrong by the way Aaron’s face clouds over with something I might label as bitterness. But it smooths away just as quickly, making me wonder if I really even saw it.
Aaron doesn’t respond to my statement about his dad, but rather catches me totally off guard. “Any interest in grabbing dinner with me tonight?”
“Sorry,” I reply as I scan the bar code on the back of the book. “I have plans already.”
“Date?” he asks.
“Is that really any of your business?” I reply, feeling my smug expression. Just a bit of payback for him making me feel all out of sorts this afternoon.
Aaron shrugs. “Not really, but I’d just be curious as to my competition.”
“I’m not a prize,” I retort primly, mainly to hide the fact he is totally charming me with the passive flattery.
Bending slightly, Aaron puts a forearm on the counter and leans in toward me. “You know, given the brush-offs you keep giving me, I’m going to agree… you’re no prize.”
I blink like an owl, trying to figure out if he’s teasing or lobbing a well-designed insult my way. His tone is light, his eyes sparkling with challenge. He doesn’t seem mean-spirited, but I know better than anyone that people never show their true faces up front. That usually comes later, after some level of trust is built.
“I must be a glutton for punishment,” he intones, straightening his body. “Because I’m bound and determined to get you to like me, Clarke Webber.”
Snorting, I place the book in a bag, then nab the credit card he holds out. I decide to throw him a bone. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t actually dislike you.”
“No, you just don’t trust me,” he replies firmly and now I know he’s more than just taking some haphazard stabs at flirting with me. He’s incredibly observant and intuitive.
“Sorry,” I reply in a tone that doesn’t sound at all apologetic. I give a careless shrug as I hand him back the credit card, pushing the receipt he needs to sign across the counter with a pen. “Guess that’s a flaw of mine.”
Aaron completes the transaction, takes the bag containing his book, and steps back from the counter. “Nothing wrong with being cautious, Clarke. Maybe one day you’ll tell me why you take it to the extreme.”
“Maybe,” I murmur thoughtfully.
He holds up his hand in farewell, turning for the door. “See you tomorrow?”
A lazy smile starts to tug at my lips, then I jerk at the realization of what he just said. “Tomorrow?” I call after him.
He glances over his shoulder, giving me a megawatt smile that causes my stomach to flutter. “I’ll be back for another book.”
And with that, he disappears out the door.
CHAPTER 7
Wylde
I pull up in front of Clarke’s small house in the Coronado neighborhood of Phoenix. I consider it a victory I got the address from her, and she allowed me to pick her up for Dax and Regan’s wedding.
It took substantial effort on my part. Four straight days of visits to her bookstore, conversations about the books I’d read, and one afternoon where I’d helped her stock books that had been delivered via UPS on the shelves.
But over the course of this week, there was a definite, incremental, warming up on her part. It’s not like I put on an act while in her store. It was no hardship to browse through books for an interesting read, then immerse myself in it.
Granted… I wasn’t pretending to be something I wasn’t. I shamelessly flirted while getting to know her, taking the time in between her waiting on customers to talk about what I’d read the prior night or fish for information about her.
In return, she wasn’t playing hard to get, but she still tried to maintain her distance. I figured out soon enough that something happened to her in the past that made her genuinely mistrustful of men. Still, she was like a flower blossoming under my continual attention, opening up petal by petal.
I was able to learn some things about her.
Like she’s super smart… double major in English and Communications.
Her favorite classic book is To Kill A Mockingbird.
She’s originally from San Diego, but her parents moved to Phoenix when she was three. They still live in the area, and she’s close to them.
Her best friend is a divorcee who
apparently did so well in her divorce settlement she’ll never have to work another day in her life. Ironically, she really wants to work, but she can’t figure out where her passion lies. I met her one day when she breezed in, wearing couture workout clothes that showed off every curve, with expertly applied makeup and looking like a million bucks.
Still, I preferred Clarke’s natural beauty any day of the week.
Best of all, while she was mildly skittish and held herself in reserve at times, Clarke actually gave me the benefit of the doubt in incremental doses as each day wore on, and this was evidenced by her trusting me enough to give me her address so I could pick her up.
Clarke lives in the historic neighborhood of Coronado in a small brick bungalow off 8th Street. I pull to the front of the curb and shut my truck off, enjoying the last moment of air conditioning before I step out in the dry summer heat that usually takes my breath away each time it slaps me in the face.
I exit my truck, round the front, and barely step onto the sidewalk when I see Clarke coming out her front door. She pulls it closed behind her, then locks it.
Waiting at the end of the pathway, I take a moment to check her out. It’s another summer wedding so she’s in pastel colors. This time, she’s in a white dress with large yellow and pink flowers that swishes around mid-calf. She has on a pair of gold sandals with a spiky heel that are actually really sexy.
But true to Clarke’s nature to sort of hide herself, she’s wearing little makeup, has her hair pulled up on top of her head, and has her glasses lodged on her nose like battle armor. When she turns to face me, she actually pushes them up with her index finger. I want to memorialize that moment forever because it’s when I realize Clarke will never be able to hide how gorgeous and sexy she is no matter how hard she tries.
I can’t help but tease her as she starts down the porch steps. “Not going to invite me in?”
My request startles her, and she stumbles a bit on the last step. I’m too far away to make a grab to steady her, but, luckily, she rights herself, once again pushing her glasses up her nose in a move I think is more from habit than anything else.
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