Page 5 of Fate, Interrupted

He crosses to the counter without looking at anything except me. His directness isn’t rude but doesn’t waste motion, either. He stops a few feet out and looks at me like I’m his next assignment.

I find this both intriguing and annoying.

I put the counter between us, folding my arms, aiming for the posture of someone entirely unaffected. “Can I help you find something?”

“Depends,” he says. “What’s included with the ambiance?”

I gesture around The Last Chapter with more sweep than the question strictly requires, because this old shop deserves a grand gesture. The sweat equity building it up—the handwritten shelf signs, the mismatched armchairs I reupholstered myself, a place that wants you to feel you discovered it all by yourself. Three years ago, my good friend and business partner, Abigail, put up half the money and all the legal scaffolding, then handed me the keys and never once tried to run it.

“Dust,” I say. “The memory of every conversation that’s happened here. And an owner who was described in her last professional review as having an excess of opinions.”

“Excess by whose standard?”

“Large corporate bookseller. Fluorescent lighting. Motivational signage.” I pause. “I skedaddled.”

“Fast?”

“Faster than was strictly professional. Slower than I wanted to.” I look at him. “What brings you in?”

It’s a fair question. For most people, it’s books. But with this wolf, I don’t think it’s the latest Ludlum.

His gaze moves past me to the shelves. That same quick, thorough sweep, and when it comes back, I have the clear impression that everything behind me has been assessed and filed, and I’m currently the more interesting subject.

The attention should make me uncomfortable. Instead, warmth creeps up the back of my neck, and I wonder what exactly he’s seeing when he looks at me that way.

I tuck that thought away immediately.

“Books,” he says.

“Bold. You’ve come to the right place.”

The re-shelving stack is under the counter where I left it at noon. I collect it, tuck it against my hip, and come around to the floor, because standing behind the counter with him on the other side isn’t helping as much as I’d like it to.

He falls into step beside me without being invited.

I notice this immediately because I’m out of practice having a man walking next to me. I’m apparently not out of practice noticing one.

“What kind of book are you looking for?” I ask, sliding a return into its spot with the satisfaction of putting a book where it belongs.

“Something practical.”

“Practical.” I straighten a spine leaning against its neighbor. “That is genuinely the most loaded word in this shop. Practical for what purpose? Self-help is practical if you need to understand why you keep making the same mistake. A thesaurus is practical if you’ve run out of ways to say the thing you mean.”

“Do you do this with everyone?” he asks.

“Only with those who use vague words to avoid answering the actual question.” I say it pleasantly. “What are you interested in reading?”

His pause is the selecting kind, not the uncertain kind. “Automotive,” he says. “Engines.”

“Stimulating choice.” I turn into a side aisle. “The section’s a little thin. My silent partner, Abby, caved to her boyfriend on the last order, but it kept him occupied, so mission accomplished, I guess. “ I gesture at the shelf. “Here you go.”

He moves past me to reach the upper shelf, and this is where the afternoon takes a turn I wasn’t adequately prepared for. Because the side aisles of The Last Chapter consider two people a crowd, and this wolf is not helping. He stops behind me, close enough that the air changes—warm and present, the heat of him coming through the thin cotton of my skirt.

Every nerve along my back seems to notice him at once. My nipples tighten beneath my tank top, an absurdly intimate response to a man who hasn’t actually touched me, and heat gathers between my thighs before I can tell my body that we’re standing in Automotive Repair at five-fifty in the afternoon.

My body notes this with an enthusiasm I find completely disproportionate to the situation.

He pulls an engine manual free and flips it open. I take a half-step to the side, a practical repositioning rather than a tactical retreat, although my body is considerably less interested in retreating than my common sense thinks it should be. I end up putting myself at the end of the unit where I can see his face.