He’s taking a shot in the dark, and no matter what quote I give him, he’ll probably blurt out Melville’s Moby Dick or something with a phallic reference.
“Okay,” I muse, gaze traveling up to the ceiling where I ponder a moment all the wonderful classics I love. I dismiss a few he might take an easy guess at—The Call of the Wild, To Kill A Mockingbird, Gulliver’s Travels.
But one comes to mind… it seems fitting in this moment.
I give him a sly smile. “The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.”
Aaron’s face is like a blank art canvas. He doesn’t even try to search his memory as there’s no furrowing of his brow or rubbing at his jaw in consternation.
I drop the receipt into his bag, push it across the counter, and try to keep all traces of smugness out of my expression.
“That’s Salinger,” Aaron says in a neutral tone. “Catcher in the Rye, I believe.”
I’m surprised my jaw doesn’t hit the counter it drops so low in disbelief, and I realize I’ve seriously misjudged this man. I completely characterized him as a rube, an unenlightened individual, and made that judgment based on his appearance and his current lack of time to read.
Or… he’s playing me somehow.
I narrow my eyes with suspicion, which only amuses him.
“Want to go double or nothing?” he suggests. “I need a date to the wedding the weekend after this one, too.”
It was a lucky guess. It had to be. Catcher in the Rye was too obvious. Anyone who graduated high school or college probably could have figured that out. I went far too easy on him.
“Deal,” I reply, confident he’ll never go two for two. I consider the possibilities again, deciding to focus on a piece of literature that tends to be favored by women over men.
Something romantic.
And pertinent.
I lift my chin. “We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”
I’m glad to see Aaron has a sense of humor and isn’t offended, for he tips his head back and laughs before bringing his gaze back to mine. He shakes his head, as if to say, “Touché,” and wags a finger.
A flush of triumph rolls through me, only to be quickly killed when he says, “Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen.”
“What in the absolute hell?” I mutter. “Are you cheating somehow?”
He holds his arms out, making a show of turning slowly. When facing me again, he asks, “With what? My secret quote book stashed somewhere on me?”
“You intentionally set me up,” I accuse.
“No,” he drawls, correcting my misstatement. “I presented a challenge. You accepted it.”
“I feel played,” I mutter.
“Had you just asked if I were well-read first, you might have declined my challenge,” he points out. “Not my fault my dad was an English professor and I’m pretty sure I can quote more classics than you—a bookstore owner—can.”
Before I can even respond, the door to my shop flies open, the tinkling bells going berserk and the wooden frame encasing glass rattling hard when it hits a table. The woman who enters immediately ducks her head in embarrassment, offering me an apologetic shrug and mouthing the words, “Sorry.”
That woman would be my best friend, Veronica. She’s everything I’m not in the looks department. Long legs, busty, and with California golden-blonde hair. She’s sporting a designer workout outfit, and she’s carrying a specialty coffee from a shop down the street.
Aaron glances at her, but he doesn’t linger, giving his attention right back. Pulling his phone off the strap around his bicep, he orders, “Give me your phone number.”
Everything within me wants to deny him, but that’s mostly self-loathing I’d misjudged him so much and let myself fall right into a date with a man I still have all kinds of danger alarms going off about.
With a grudge in my tone, I rattle off my number. He types it into his phone, then immediately dials me. My phone is in my purse, under the counter behind me, but I ignore it. He’s only calling to ensure I have his number, too. I’ll input his contact info, then come up with some excuse to back out later. A simple text should suffice.
“I can see what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” he teases, and my cheeks fire up. “And I get it… you could easily just text me to cancel after I leave, but that will be a matter for your conscience. I won fair and square, so I guess I’ll just have to see how much honor you have.”
A tiny growl wells in my throat that he would dare throw the gauntlet down. Integrity is important to me, so I know there’s no way in hell I’ll cancel now.
“You can text me your address, though,” he says with a wink as he grabs the bag from the counter. “So I know where to pick you up on Saturday. Be ready around five PM.”
I dart my glance behind him to Veronica. She’s acting like she’s only perusing my merchandise, but she’s totally listening in.
Turning my attention to Aaron, I tilt my chin upward. “Not about to hand my address out to a perfect stranger. You can send me the address of where the wedding is taking place, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Fair enough,” he replies as he turns away from me, heading toward the door. Veronica is in his way, but he just gives her a polite nod and moves around her. She fans herself dramatically behind his back to indicate she thinks he’s hot as hell, and I can’t wait to tell her I’m sure he can see her reflection in the glass of the door.
When Aaron grabs the handle to pull it open, he looks back. “If you want to get to know me better before the wedding, give me a call. We can go out for a drink or dinner. Or we can just talk about classic literature if you’d like.”
My face gets even hotter, another pointed reminder I’d totally misjudged him and we actually have something in common.
Stupid jock who isn’t a jock, apparently.
The bells tinkle merrily as he pulls the door open and disappears onto the sidewalk. Veronica leans to the side, craning her neck so she can watch him walk down the street as long as possible. When he’s out of her line of sight, she straightens and turns with an expression of wonder.
“Clarke Angelica Webber,” she accuses as she saunters up to the counter. “You little minx. Flirting with the customers and scoring a date with an Adonis. Just look at you, girl.”
“Shut up,” I growl, not an ounce of teasing in my tone. I can get away with it because we’ve been friends for most of our lives, starting all the way back in preschool.
“No, you shut up,” she replies automatically in an exaggeratedly snippy tone. Then she laughs, waving a hand. “Actually, don’t shut up. Tell me everything from start to finish.”
So I do, from the moment he walked in.
“Oh, damn,” she murmurs in awe, snapping her fingers. “And he just threw out J.D. Salinger as if it were nothing. Wow.”
“I should have sensed it was a trap,” I grumble.
“Why are you so upset?” Veronica asks, taking a sip of her coffee before offering me a taste. I take the cup, lift it to my mouth, and smell cinnamon.