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 bookshelves. “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.