Saved By Your Hot Book Boyfriend

2. Time to Wake Up the Hot Guy

2

Time to Wake Up the Hot Guy

You

Just the book you’ve been looking for? But you’ve never met this little old man in your life. There’s no way he knows what you like.

“Sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” You glance at the door again. How rude would it be if you just walked out without giving him a chance to say another word?

“Aha!” The shopkeeper exclaims from the other side of the stacks. “Found it.”

Before you can make your stealthy escape, he reappears, pressing a small book into your hands.

It’s a beautiful hardcover with crisp, black fabric embossed with metallic gold foil. Strangely, there’s no title. And when you open it, the inside pages are just pure black paper with gilded edges.

The wizened man notices your confused expression and laughs.

With a wink, he says, “There’s more to it than meets the eye.”

Uhhh, sure Grandpa.

“I’m sure there is,” you say politely, looking for a place to set the sketchbook down. Because that’s what it must be. Maybe for white ink. Or pastels.

Too bad you’re not in the market for a fancy sketchbook. There’s no price sticker on it, either, and judging by the quality, it can’t be cheap.

Not only do you not need it, you probably can’t afford it.

When you try to place it atop a stack nearby, one of the other books flutters its pages and growls menacingly. Yeah. Growls .

You yank your hand back with a start.

Did that book actually just growl at you!? It’s late. Maybe you’re more tired than you realized, and this is all some sort of weird hallucination.

The old man chuckles at your reaction.

“There, there,” he says to the upset books, giving them a comforting pat.

Is he completely bonkers?

Heck, are you out of your mind? Because if you’re not imagining it, the upset stack of books seems to settle down, making a cooing sound as soon as the old man pats them.

Alrighty, then…

Maybe this is a dream, and you’re asleep on the side of the road somewhere, passed out from exhaustion on your way home.

That’s a horrifying thought.

Or perhaps you’re awake, and there’s a gas leak. You sniff the air, but all you smell is just old books and dust.

Either way, you don’t want to hang around to find out.

“Alright, I’ll just get the sketchbook,” you say in a hurry, handing it back to the shopkeeper.

Anything to get out that door.

His face brightens, and you try not to feel like you’ve just fallen into a terrible trap.

Hopefully it won’t be too expensive. You’re not exactly swimming in cash at the moment.

“How much is it?” You ask nervously as the little old man carries it away.

He’s so short, he drags a stool behind the counter just to see over.

He hums while he works, unrolling a length of brown kraft paper and beginning to cut it.

“For you,” he says, “This book has no cost.” He continues to hum tunelessly, folding the brown paper neatly around the edges of the book. In a quiet voice, you swear you hear him say, “No worldly one, anyhow.”

“What was that?”

“Hmmm?” He smiles innocently, looking up from his wrapping. “Oh, nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“You definitely said something.”

“Did I?” He only laughs. “Must have been the wind.”

With a wink, he passes the wrapped book across the counter to you.

“You know,” you say, holding your hands up as you take a step back, careful not to bump into the precarious stacks at your back. “I just realized how late it is. On second thought, I’d better hurry home.”

The air in the shop goes suddenly cold. Icy wind rushes through the room and flutters all the pages as it whooshes through the narrow stacks.

Shivers race down your spine and your heart leaps into your throat.

“NO!” The little old man roars, his frizzy, white hair standing on end as the lights overhead flicker. “You must take it.”

You lurch back in terror, banging into the books at your back, then leaping forward and landing against the front of the counter with a dull thump .

Ouch.

“ Oh, my ,” the shopkeeper says, back to his normal voice. As if surprised by his own outburst.

He blinks rapidly across at you where you cling to the edge of the counter, terrified, as the lights finally stop flickering.

“Excuse me.” He pushes his spectacles back up along the bridge of his nose and clears his throat. “Where was I?” He glances down at the book in his hand and smiles demurely. “Ah, yes. The book.” He holds it out, leaning across the counter to extend it to you. With shaking hands, he declares, “Fate has chosen you.”

Fate!?

What in the creepy nonsense is this?

But it doesn’t seem you’ve got much choice.

“Okay, okay. I’ll take it.” With shaking hands, you swipe the book off the table. Static prickles your fingers as you grab it, and you jolt, nearly dropping it.

“ Ouch ,” you grumble as you back away, still clutching the probably-cursed book. This feels like a bad sign.

Hopefully you won’t regret this.

It’s just a book, you tell yourself. Just a book! You can always donate it later if you still feel weird about it.

Nothing to be afraid of, you repeat to yourself, but your heart is still racing from the strange old man’s outburst.

Now that the book is in your hands, he’s gone back to humming tunelessly, his eyes quiet and his smile demure as he meanders back into the stacks and begins dusting the haphazard shelves.

“I’ll just be going now,” you say, edging toward the door.

“Hmmm?” The old man asks, blinking slowly as he turns to look at you. “Oh, you’re still here.”

Maybe he really is senile.

“It’s late,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be getting to bed?”

But the old man only laughs, waving his dust rag. “This is the finest hour of the day! I wouldn’t dream of wasting it.”

You smile and nod politely. “Sure, right. Of course.”

But inside, you’re shaking your head.

The finest hour? It’s got to be three in the morning by now. Your eyes are so dry and tired, you can’t fathom why you even stepped foot in the shop to begin with. You and that old man are probably the last two people awake on the entire block.

You should have hurried straight home.

And that’s exactly what you’re going to do now.

“ Oh! ” The wizened old shopkeeper calls as you reach the door. “Do watch your step out there, now—the world-veil is especially thin tonight.”

World-veil?

What a strange old man.

“Sure thing,” you reply, already halfway out the door.

“Wait!” He calls, rushing to lean his head out after you, “I almost forgot! Remember! If you are in danger, remember the power of wishes!”

You pause, already halfway across the street, ready to put as much distance between you and that creepy bookshop as possible.

“The power of wishes,” you repeat with a polite smile. He really is nuts. “Got it. Thank you, have a good night!”

Before he has a chance to say anything else, you turn and hurry down the block.

Well, that was odd.

To make it even weirder, when you glance over your shoulder, the shop is gone.

Just gone.

A single streetlight flickers overhead, buzzes, then goes out.

Mysterious Hot Guy

I can’t get any damn rest around here.

Just when I’m finally drifting back to sleep, a sharp static shock jolts me awake.

What the hell was that?