“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.
CHAPTER 2
Clarke
If the man weren’t so damn attractive and easy on the eyes, I’d wind the conversation down so he’d leave. Just because he’s about the best-looking thing I’ve ever seen doesn’t mean he’s a good person, and I know better than anyone that looks don’t have a damn thing to do with what’s inside.
On the contrary, it’s probably a good indication he’s an egotistical asshole.
At least in my experience, which is proven and true.
And God… he’s a bit weird. Struggling to come up with conversation, appearing a bit nervous, and with behavior that’s just downright awkward. If he weren’t so polite, I’d actually be feeling a little wary, but, as it is, I think he’s just weird.
“Actually… I don’t have much time for reading these days,” the man says in response to my question about books. What did he say his name was? Ervin? Allen?
Aaron?
My eyes do a quick rake over his body. He’s clearly what I’d peg as a part-time jock. He’s wearing high-end athletic gear for his run. His watch is expensive-looking, which means he makes a good living—maybe a financial advisor? One of those guys who likes to stay in shape, so he looks good in his three-piece suit. I bet he’s a member of an exclusive country club where he golfs five days a week and probably plays flag football on the side.
I give him a polite smile, because I want to roll my eyes at anyone who says they don’t have time to read. If a person loves books the way I do, they’ll find time to read. If they don’t read, it’s because they don’t like to do it, which makes them something of a moron in my mind.
I mean… who doesn’t like books? They give knowledge, elicit tears or laughter, and transport people to faraway places.
The dude is definitely weird.
“I’ll go ahead and get this rung up—”
“Another wedding,” he blurts out, then slaps his forehead as if he’d just remembered something critical to life on earth. “I actually have another wedding weekend after this, and I’ll need a gift for that. And come to think of it, one in July, too. So I’ll need two more.”
“Oh… okay,” I murmur, setting the wrapped wine opener on the counter and moving out from behind it. Dude is totally weird. “Let’s see if we can find you something.”
Fifteen minutes later, we have picked out a vase for one lucky couple and a table book of southwestern photography for the other. The man asks me to wrap those as well, which I do quickly before finally moving to ring him up.
“I know this might be coming out of left field,” the man says with a bit of hesitation, “but would you have any interest in joining me as my date to the wedding this weekend? There’s going to be a really great reception after with some awesome barbeque and a band.”
I give him a smile, hoping it’s appropriately polite and regretful. “That’s very sweet of you to offer, but no thank you.”
“Got a boyfriend?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, then immediately curse myself. I should have said yes.
“Married?”
Damn you, truth. I shake my head. “No, but—”
“Then say yes,” he pushes with oozing confidence, leaning on the counter and leveling an impish smile. I have to say, it’s a really great smile, replete with dimples and everything.
“I’m sorry, Ervin—”
Annoyance flashes across his face. “Aaron.”
“Aaron,” I confirm, trying not to laugh. “But… um, well… you’re not my type.”
He blinks in surprise, and I can tell in this moment that no woman ever has told this man that.
“What exactly is your type?” he asks with a frown.
I really don’t have one. I’ve dated a variety of men—a DJ, a sommelier, and a roof inspector just in the last few months. But something about this man has danger bells ringing faintly in the background—not from a safety perspective, but rather he just seems as if he has complication written all over him.
I always listen to my gut, so I pull forth somewhat of a lie, which I know will work based on what little he’s revealed of himself. “I’m actually more into the brainy, nerdy types. You know… the ones who always have their noses buried in a book and can quote Proust on a whim.”
He blinks, clearly not understanding a word I just said. Definitely a jock.
I seem to have shocked him into silence, as he doesn’t say a word as I ring up his purchases. After I punch in the appropriate codes, I scan the tags and tally the total cost with tax. “That will be $179.32.”
Aaron reaches into his side pocket, then pulls out a small clip securing some cash along with a single credit card. I slide it through the reader, then complete the transaction.
It’s as I’m placing his gifts in a bag that he decides to take another stab at a date. “How about a little wager or competition? If I win, then you have to go to the wedding with me.”
He’s persistent, I’ll give him that, and well… I have to admit he has my curiosity all riled up. I tilt my head. “Like what?”
“Well… I used to be a reader,” he says quickly, now leaning on the counter again with both forearms resting there. His eyes are sparkling, filled with challenge. “You know… back in high school and such. How about you give me a well-known quote from your favorite classic and if I can guess what book it’s from, you have to go to the wedding with me this weekend?”
I regard him, wondering if this is some type of trap. But no… he has no interest in books. I can tell by the fact he didn’t bother perusing one shelf in my store that houses all kinds of amazing literature.