Taking it from her, I pretend to study it thoughtfully before I shake my head. “I don’t think this is to their taste.”
In truth, it very well could be. I’m not good at stuff like this, but if I accept the first thing she shows me, then the conversation is over and I’ll have to leave.
She next shows me a pair of brass candlesticks. “Too formal,” I say.
A porcelain picture frame. “Too feminine.”
A music box. “Also too feminine.”
Next up is a fancy wine opener. Well, that’s actually a really good gift. Reluctantly, I nod with a smile. “It’s perfect.”
“Awesome,” she replies, moving past me to get to the register. She smells of vanilla with an undertone of what might be oranges. It’s pretty, and I can’t quite remember the last time a woman’s fragrance appealed to me.
“Would you like me to gift wrap this?” she asks.
“That would be awesome,” I reply, because anything that will give me the opening I need to ask her out is all right with me.
I am most definitely asking her out.
I mean, she’s hot, but she has this nerdy quality going on with the glasses and innocent fragrance. Her clothes are slightly baggy, not the form-fitting, bare-all concoctions most women I hook up with wear.
She’s like a breath of fresh air and this perplexes me, because I’ve never been overly attracted to her type before.
“So how long have you been working here?” I ask genially as she reaches under a cabinet behind the register to pull out a long bin with wrapping paper in it.
“I own the place,” she replies without looking up. In her tone, there’s amusement I would never even consider she was the owner, along with pride in herself that she owns this place.
“Wow,” I reply, surprised and impressed. I turn around, taking in the store once more. She must be doing okay since this is a high-rent commercial district of Phoenix.
“Opened it about six months ago,” she replies, rummaging through the bin. “Lifelong dream and all.”
“Good for you.” I lean on the checkout counter, watching her with appreciation while her back is turned to me. “So, I take it you’re the ‘Clarke’ of ‘Clarke’s Corner’?”
Without warning, she glances over her shoulder at me and I manage to tear my eyes off her ass just in time. “That’s me. Clarke Webber.”
“Aaron Wylde,” I reply in turn. I watch carefully to see if there’s a glimmer of recognition, since I am a famous hockey player, after all. But she didn’t seem to recognize my face when I walked in, or, if she did, she played it super cool.
Now, she just gives me a polite nod and murmurs, “Nice to meet you.”
Yeah… she has no clue who I am, which means she’s not a hockey fan. It isn’t all that surprising. While the Vengeance coming to Phoenix last year generated immense buzz and excitement, not everyone is a fan. I saw a recent article that said TV viewership for the final Cup championship game was at 2.9 million. Contrasted to the 19.3 million people who watched the Game of Thrones finale, it’s obvious to see professional hockey is a niche.
Clarke jolts me from my thoughts by turning to face me.
“Is this a formal wedding or something a bit more casual?” She holds up two different rolls of paper. I’m assuming one is fancy and the other isn’t, but fuck if I can tell the difference.
“It’s going to be an outdoor wedding, so I’d say maybe casual.”
“Got it,” she replies, attention returning to the wine opener. As she works at removing the price tag and wrapping it, I prattle on, which is weird for me. “It’s kind of a spontaneous type thing. The couple is engaged, and they were going to do something bigger, but they had an accidental pregnancy, so decided to just go for it.”
“Oh, good for them,” she intones, and I can feel the smile in her words. “And, honestly, if they already have a wine opener—and chances are they do—it’s always good to have a backup.”
With the package wrapped, she starts to ring up the purchase. A surge of panic hits me when I realize that, once this exchange is complete, I’ll be expected to walk out that door with a wrapped wine opener under my arm—which I don’t need—and this gorgeous woman but a memory.
I struggle to think of anything to get our conversation where I need it so I can make a move. Ask her out and arrange something.
Fuck, this is hard.
I suppose it comes with the territory of being nothing but a playboy who prefers to hop from bed to bed. Also, it’s a bit of an issue that I often rely on my looks or fame to get me where I’m going. Most of my hookups happen after games or in bars where literally dozens of puck bunnies throw themselves at me and it’s just a matter of choosing the one I’m most attracted to.
“What kind of books do you sell?” I blurt out.
Clarke blinks those dreamy eyes, her auburn brows drawing inward slightly as if that’s the weirdest question for a bookstore owner to get. “Um… a bit of everything, really. And if I don’t have what you’re searching for, I can easily get it for you. Something in particular you need?”
And… another dead-end conversation.
I haven’t read a book in years.
Discover the World Of 1001 Dark Nights
Collection One
Collection Two
Collection Three
Collection Four
Collection Five
Collection Six
Bundles
Discovery Authors
Blue Box Press
Rising Storm
Liliana Hart's MacKenzie Family
Lexi Blake's Crossover Collection
Kristen Proby's Crossover Collection
On Behalf of 1001 Dark Nights,
Liz Berry, M.J. Rose, and Jillian Stein would like to thank ~
Steve Berry
Doug Scofield
Benjamin Stein
Kim Guidroz
InkSlinger PR
Dan Slater
Asha Hossain
Chris Graham
Chelle Olson
Kasi Alexander
Jessica Johns
Dylan Stockton
Richard Blake
and Simon Lipskar
Rafe Page 12