by Jen Morris
No, I tell myself firmly. I’m not going to keep daydreaming about him, about the things he said, about how vulnerable he looked when he told me he liked me…
Shit, this is harder than I thought.
The blinking cursor is mocking me from the screen, so I force myself to get some words down. Any words.
How to be just friends with someone when you have a huge crush on them and want nothing more than to rip their clothes off…
There. That’s a start.
I stare at the words, willing my fingers to write more, but they’re frozen. I still can’t believe Michael likes me. And now he’s taking me somewhere as a surprise, and that’s really sweet. Because he’s sweet, isn’t he? And now I might get to spend New Year’s Eve with him, and if I do…
Cat comes back into the living room and I jump, slamming my laptop shut. Jesus, I’ve been sitting here in a Michael-induced daze for forty minutes. How the hell did that happen?
“I shouldn’t have eaten that burger,” Cat says as she wanders to the kitchen. “Now I feel bloated.”
I take in her sexy fitted black dress, her perfectly styled hair, her flawless makeup. She looks fantastic, but I notice again that she doesn’t look like her normal self.
“You look great! Besides, at least you won’t be hungry now.”
“I guess,” she mutters, grabbing her purse. Then she stops, forcing the air from her lungs. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could just be ourselves around men without having to play all these stupid games?”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically. Then I pause, thinking of the way I behave when I’m around Michael. For the most part, I think, I’ve just been myself. Okay, sure—I haven’t told him I’ve been picturing him naked, or that I’m writing a romance novel based on what I want him to do to me, but I’m not putting on an act or trying to impress him. Am I?
Cat pulls on her coat and gives me a weary smile. “I’ll catch you later. Hopefully I’ll have a wonderful story to tell you about how I’ve met a rich and sexy guy. Wish me luck!”
I give her a big grin, holding up crossed fingers as she leaves. I wish she would see how fun she is when she’s simply being herself, and not try to impress men so much.
As the door closes behind her, I turn back to my laptop, feeling an idea blossom in my mind. I open a new document and start an article for Justin. This time, I’m inspired by Cat—by what she said about playing games and putting on an act and feeling like you can’t be yourself. Because when you’re single, you’re free of all that.
The words flow quickly, and it’s not long before I have a rough draft. I’m smiling as I set my laptop aside, imagining my words on Bliss Edition. Then I lie back on the bed, wondering where on earth Michael could be taking me tomorrow.
24
I look at the corner building across the street, wide-eyed. There’s a red canopy running around the ground level displaying the words “Strand Bookstore,” and several matching banners above.
“What is this place?” I ask Michael. I have a feeling I’m going to like the answer.
He grins as the crosswalk signal goes and we step out onto the street. “It’s the biggest bookstore in the city. Eighteen miles of books.”
I stop in the middle of the road, turning to him in disbelief. “Eighteen miles?” I might not have quite mastered the conversion of kilometers to miles, but I do know that’s an awful lot of books.
Michael grabs my arm and drags me across to the curb with a chuckle. Then, we enter through the doors into what I can only describe as my idea of heaven. There are books everywhere I turn, and the space is huge. It’s not just some cute nook in the Village, like Between the Lines; it’s the whole ground floor of this building. It’s not just books, either; there are bags and bookmarks and mugs and socks and buttons and every conceivable item a book lover could want.
Sweet Jesus. How did I not know this place existed? I should have come straight here from the airport! Why have I been wasting my time on the rest of the city?
“This is amazing,” I breathe.
“I thought you’d like it. There are three more floors too.”
“More floors?!” I spy a stack of shopping baskets by the door and lunge on one, giddy with excitement.
Michael laughs. “Maybe you should get a cart.”
“Oh, yes!” I glance around and his eyes crinkle in amusement.
“I was kidding.”
“Oh.” Heat warms my cheeks and I shrink. Who gets this excited about books?
You know what? I do.
I straighten my shoulders, thinking back to the conversation with Cat yesterday. I don’t need to impress Michael—in fact, if I’m going to be his friend, I should just be myself.
He reaches for another basket with a smile, apparently not at all disturbed by my display of enthusiasm. “Here. I’ll carry an extra basket in case you need it.”
I stare at him for a second, fighting the urge to get down on one knee and propose. He’s carrying an extra basket for all my books. I just… can’t. This is game over.
He gestures for me to explore and I shoot him a huge grin, turning back to the stacks of books. The first thing I do is find the writing section, and we spend a good chunk of time looking through the different writing books. Michael checks out a few, then says he’s going to have a look upstairs.
After the writing section I find the romance section and, well, let’s just say I could die right here and I’d be happy. I’ve never seen so many romance novels in one place—and not just new, but secondhand, too. We have a decent selection at Between the Lines, and we had a handful in the shop back home, but most of the time I bought the titles I wanted online. This is the first time I’ve seen so many in one place, begging to be bought and read and treasured.
I’m about to reach for one when an uncomfortable feeling prickles across my skin, making me hesitate. I know I’m writing my own romance novel—and I borrowed those books from work—but I haven’t actually bought a new romance novel in a few months. Every time I wanted to, I’ve resisted, remembering Mum’s heartless words. I’ve been mocked for reading them for years, so they’ve always felt like a guilty pleasure, but for some reason her words the morning after my birthday hurt so much more.
It’s not just that, though. Ever since things ended with Travis, I’ve felt so jaded. It’s like I’ve just given up on the idea of true love. In a way, I almost feel like romance novels have betrayed me. Mum’s right—they’ve given me this ideal view of the world, this hope that I could meet my soul-mate and live happily ever after. And that’s just left me disappointed.
But… as much I hate to admit it, I miss them. It’s almost like a part of myself disappeared when I let go of the thing I loved.
I run a finger over the beautiful spines, feeling a pang in my chest. I’m here in this paradise and I’m denying myself the thing that has always brought me happiness. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge myself.
With a quick glance over my shoulder to check Michael isn’t around, I grab a stack of novels and carry them over to a chair. As soon as I sit down and start looking through the vibrant, candy-colored covers, I feel my heart piece itself back together a little bit.
Then, before I know what I’m doing, I go back for more, pulling one after another off the shelf and hoping I have enough self-control not to buy them all. I feel like I’ve just been offered a feast after nearly starving to death.
In the end I manage to cull my selection down to just five novels, which I think we can all agree shows extreme self-control. Combined with the four writing books I found, I’m only buying nine books in total. The old credit card is going to take a bit of a beating, but I haven’t treated myself like this for ages.
I heave my basket down the aisles, wandering for a while, looking for Michael. Eventually, I find him down a small, narrow aisle, tucked against the back wall. It’s a section with poetry, and there are a bunch of old, antique books. I run a finger along their ancient spines, inhaling t
heir musty smell and smiling to myself.
Michael grins when he sees me.
“Hey,” I say, setting my basket down. I’ve done my best to arrange the books so that the romance novels are tucked behind the writing books. I don’t want a repeat of what happened when he caught me at work.
His eyes flick to my basket then back to me, and there’s a twitch in his lip. “Just a few books there?”
I giggle. “I know. I have no shelf control.”
“Did you just make a book pun?”
“I did,” I say, grinning. “Because, look!” I pull a book out of my basket and hold it up. It’s a collection of jokes for writers, which of course I absolutely must have.
A smile hints at Michael’s mouth as he eyes the cover.
I flip it open and scan for something to read aloud. “Ha ha, listen to this: The past, the present and the future all walked into a bar.” I pause, glancing up at him, then add, “It was tense.”
A laugh rumbles from his chest and I giggle again, looking back down at the book.
“Oh, here’s another one: I’ll never date another apostrophe. The last one was too possessive.” I chortle again as I place the book back into my basket.
Michael is quiet and I feel a spasm of self-consciousness, glancing up at him. His eyes are sparkling as he gazes at me, deep creases around the corners. For a second I think he’s amused by me like he always seems to be, that he’s going to say something about how silly these puns are—how silly I am.
But he doesn’t. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile as he says, “You’re so cute.”
My heart stumbles, tripping over itself at his words. He thinks I’m cute? He doesn’t think I’m silly—he thinks I’m cute.
I stare at him breathlessly. What am I doing? This man thinks I’m cute and I’m choosing not to be with him? Why am I—
“Well, this looks interesting.” Michael pulls a book from my basket—one of my romance titles.
Instinctively, I grimace, feeling embarrassed. But then I remember what I decided: I’m not trying to impress him. I’m just being myself. I’ve been denying my love of romance but holding these books in my hands has made me feel better than I have in a long time.
“Yes.” I lift my chin, taking a deep breath. “I read romance novels. And I’m writing one too.”
“Hmm,” he says, and I can tell he’s struggling not to smile by the way his lower lip is trembling.
“You can judge me all you like, but—”
“Alex,” he says, his face softening as he places the book back in my basket, “why would I judge you for liking romance novels?”
I falter, surprised by his response. “Well… you thought it was hilarious when you saw me with them at work.”
“Did I?”
“You were making fun of me.”
“No. I wasn’t making fun of you. I was actually…” He rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks turn crimson as his gaze falls to his feet. “I was trying to flirt with you. Not very well, obviously.”
“Oh,” I murmur, processing this. I think back to that day when he showed up at work. “Did you really forget that I worked there?”
“No,” he says sheepishly. “I… wanted to see you.”
Delight sweeps through me, and when he glances up with a shy smile, my heartbeat wobbles. For a second I forget all about the fact that I’m not supposed to be interested in him, and contemplate stepping forward to kiss him.
Shit. Snap out of it.
“And then I told you your book was crap,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood. “So you thought, fuck her, she’s a bitch.” I give a strained laugh, but Michael doesn’t join in.
“I never once thought that.”
He’s staring at me so intensely that my pulse is rushing. I swallow, suddenly aware that we’re alone down this narrow aisle, and he’s standing very close to me. It’s the bloody injured shoulder ordeal all over again. How do I keep ending up in these enclosed spaces with him? At least this time he’s fully clothed, though it wouldn’t be hard to remedy that…
I shake my head, willing myself to pull it together. I need to get out of this bookstore and get some fresh air. I need to take a cold shower.
I go to reach for my basket, but Michael stops me. “Is that why you didn’t want to tell me you’re writing a romance novel? Because you thought I’d make fun of you?”
“I don’t know.” I lean against the bookshelf behind me with a weary sigh. “They’re a bit of a guilty pleasure, I guess.”
“What is there to feel guilty about?”
I think of Mum’s words and cringe. “They give you unrealistic expectations, make you want things you can’t have.”
“Like what?”
The word “love” almost tumbles out of my mouth, but I catch myself just in time. Because that’s crazy—I can’t tell Michael that. But when I glance at him, I can tell he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I look down at my hands. “Do you remember at Beanie, when I told you I felt like I had nothing to show for my twenties?”
“Of course.”
“Well… I wasn’t just talking about my career.” I may as well be honest. He probably deserves an explanation for everything, anyway. I mean, he told me he liked me and I just… didn’t respond. I didn’t tell him any of the things I was thinking. I just let him believe I didn’t like him at all.
“Okay, this is embarrassing, but—” I glance up and down the aisle, checking we’re alone. “I got dumped on my birthday, and it… made me really bitter.”
“Some guy dumped you on your birthday?”
I look back at Michael, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but there is none. If anything, he looks almost shocked.
“Alex, that’s… that’s fucking awful.”
“Yeah.” A humorless laugh breaks from me. “At the time, I thought he and I had something special. It’s pretty obvious now that we didn’t, but it was humiliating.”
Michael gives a slow nod. “And that made you stop believing in love.”
I nod too, unable to meet his gaze. “And, you know. I’m thirty and I’m still single, after dating for years. Lately I’ve felt like maybe these books”—I gesture to my basket—“aren’t realistic. Like maybe love really is a fantasy.” I scratch my arm, trying to ignore the sadness tugging at me. “For years I wanted to meet someone and fall in love. And the more I wanted it, the crazier I felt. So I just… stopped.” Well, I tried. But looking at Michael’s handsome, understanding face, I realize it hasn’t worked one bit. “I just wanted to grow up and stop believing in fairy tales.”
“Is that what you think growing up is? No longer being optimistic?”
“Well, you’re older than me and you’re…” I motion towards him vaguely, searching for the right word.
Amusement pulls Michael’s mouth into a smile. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to finish.
“Well, you’re kind of cynical.”
He nods. “I am, and it’s the thing I dislike the most about myself. I’d never realized that until I met you. Why do you think I’m drawn to you, Alex?”
I shrug, because honestly? I don’t have the faintest clue.
“Because you’re optimistic. You have a way of seeing the world that makes me want to be more positive. But what you’re saying about love…” His brow knits, and something flickers in his eyes. “There’s nothing crazy about believing in love.”
I gaze at him, feeling a wry smile creep onto my lips. “Well, I never thought I’d hear that from the same guy I ran into on Halloween.”
Michael grimaces. “Yeah. That guy was a dick.” I chuckle and he shakes his head. “I didn’t think I’d feel that way again either, but… things change. Sometimes people come into your life who make you question things you’d always assumed were the truth.” His eyes crinkle into a tender smile, and my heart swoops. Because I’m quite certain he’s talking about me.
I rub my chest, feeling an ache building behi
nd my ribcage. I can’t believe this guy, standing here in the poetry aisle of the most amazing bookstore I’ve ever seen, telling me to believe in love. I’m supposed to be the romantic here—he’s supposed to be the cynic. But it almost feels like, right now, he knows me better than I know myself.
Fuck. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep telling myself I don’t want him.
Without stopping to think, I take a step closer, stand up on my tip-toes and press my lips to his. He’s caught off-guard and stumbles a little against the shelf behind him. It takes a fraction of a second for him to respond, but when he does…
Oh my God.
His warm lips brush over mine in a soft, gentle kiss, and his hands settle lightly on my waist. There’s a zing through me, a thrill at kissing him finally, at how lovely it is.
And then my thoughts come piling in and I step back, embarrassed.
What the hell is wrong with me? One minute we’re having a perfectly nice conversation then the next I’m throwing myself at him. I cringe as heat sweeps over my cheeks.
“Shit.” I touch my fingertips to my tingling lips, studying the carpet. “I’m so sorry.”
But when I force myself to meet his gaze, he’s looking at me with dark eyes and a sexy smile, shaking his head. “No. Don’t apologize.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Kiss me again.”
25
Oh God. I know I shouldn’t kiss him again, but fuck—I’m only human.
I slide my tongue over my bottom lip, ready to press him up against the bookshelves, when I hear a sound beside us.
“Excuse me, could I just…”
My eyes swivel to see a young woman, gesturing down the aisle beyond us, and I resist the urge to scream. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”
We both turn awkwardly to let her pass, and I take a second to get some air into my lungs. I want so badly to kiss him again, but this woman is hovering nearby now, and—well, I guess we are in public. I can hardly blame her for wanting to browse books in a bookstore. But still.