Chapter 8 The Bookstore
the bookstore [trope]
a sacred location where the bookworm character gets gloriously spoiled; it usually includes a “get whatever you want”— no budget, no judgment, just pure, unfiltered indulgence in bookish bliss
Nothing like buying a new book to hide from the fact that your brother, who basically hates you, won’t open up to you about someone hurting him. Or at least that’s what I say to myself as I peruse the new arrivals at Providence’s biggest bookstore.
“This one looks good,” I say, before shoving another paperback onto the pile in Rafael’s arms. I grab a blue book, and as I read the synopsis, he groans.
“Are they too heavy?”
He turns to the side, the tower of books covering most of his face. “No, but I’ll need to recant my answer to your question ‘How many books can you hold?’ because it turns out ‘As many as you want’ might not be true.”
“Sorry—give me some.”
“No, no. I get it. Retail therapy with books.” He steps back, holding the pile out of my range. “How about I leave these at the counter, then come back here for more?”
I watch him walk away. He followed me out of the house when Ethan left, even as I tried to tell him he didn’t need to come along, and he doesn’t seem to mind that we’ve spent two hours here.
“Reporting for duty,” Rafael says as he approaches my side again, a contented smile still in place. Seriously? Even my feet are hurting.
“You can say so if you’re bored.”
His smile dampens. “Do I look bored?”
“No, but—”
“Good, because I’m not.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, searching his face for the smallest hint of a lie.
But there’s nothing—no flicker in his eyes, no twitch of his lips.
I sigh inwardly and go back to reading the synopsis.
Sounds like a historical whodunit, not my thing.
I set it back on the shelf, then continue perusing the aisle.
“How often do you do this?”
“Not much. Just… whenever I’m upset.”
“Every time? You picked, like, a million books.”
“I get a special discount,” I say defensively. “It’s probably the best perk of the job.”
“You must be single-handedly responsible for the deforestation on this side of the continent. Have you ever considered getting an ebook reader?”
“I like trophies.”
“Like a serial killer?”
“Exactly like it.” I turn a new book around and read through the blurb, but I can feel Rafael’s eyes studying me. “Yes?”
“Your brother, um…”
I exhale, setting the book down. “Yeah.”
“He looked like he got a good beating.”
Which breaks my heart in ways I can’t even explain. Almost as much as the fact that he won’t tell me what happened.
“Do you want me to ask around? See what happened?”
“Thank you, but he lives in Wethersfield with my grandparents.”
He shrugs. “I have a wide network.”
“Really?” I watch him warily. “For work?”
He nods, picking up a book and reading the back.
He never really said what he does, did he? “Which is…”
“Exhausting but well paid.” He opens the cover and flips through some pages. “Lots of traveling, too.”
“Really?”
“I can’t talk too much about it.”
Oh, he’s hoping to keep something private in this town? Mrs. Prattle will tell me all about his secret business by the end of the week. “Anyway, sorry about Vanessa. She’s a good friend and my best friend’s girlfriend and a little…”
He meets my gaze over the edge of the book. “Insane?”
“Intense,” I correct. “What were you doing, anyway? In my backyard?”
“I thought…” He shakes his head as if doubting himself. “I’m probably wrong, but I thought I saw a cat.”
“No, you’re likely right. Sherlock always sneaks out to see his girlfriend.”
We’ve reached the end of the aisle, so I give him another book and walk to the next one, my stomach immediately sinking when I notice the abundance of pink covers.
Romance.
I turn around and walk back to the crime section.
“What was that?”
“What?”
He points at my pursed lips, then turns back to the romance section. “What—oh. Romance books, of course. How’s the podcast going?”
“Not great.” I feel his gaze on the side of my face. “I delivered my first script about this stupid fake-dating book, and apparently, I didn’t get the point. My boss might have called it slander.”
He hisses through his teeth, then walks back. “So let’s check out their selection.”
“No, thank you.”
He ignores me, standing in the romance aisle across from me. He picks up a book—a pink one—and reads the back. “This one seems nice. She’s obsessed with weddings, but—”
“Nope,” I snap.
“All right.” He sets it back on the shelf, then picks up another. After his face scrunches, he discards that one, too.
Fighting a chuckle, I focus on the blurb of the book I’m holding.
“How about this one, then?”
I look up and see him holding a red book. On the cover, a woman with a detective trench coat and a slightly messy ponytail holds a magnifying glass. A man stands opposite her, holding a book in one hand and looking down at her.
The Love Alibi.
“What’s it about?”
“A detective investigating a string of murders who falls in love with the suspect, a widower and bookseller who’s withdrawn from the world.”
I tilt my head, considering it. “I guess it beats wedding planning.”
Rafael walks to my side of the bookshelf, then holds out the book. “Read a passage.”
“Right here?” I ask, looking around at the semi-empty shop.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s stupid.”
“Come on, do it.”
“Nope.”
“Do it, or I’ll start singing ‘I Want It That Way.’ Really loud.”
Please. Not even Rafael Gray is that unhinged.
“You are my fiiire,” he starts, loud and off-key, startling the old woman sitting behind the cash register.
“Stop—fine!” I take the book and flip through the pages, stopping on chapter twenty-three. The scent of Rafael so close to me—cologne mixed with something warm and masculine—makes it hard to focus.
“Simone’s heart raced as Luca reached for her hand, his fingers brushing hers with deliberate slowness,” I read.
“She looked up at him, her lips parting, but no words came. His thumb traced her knuckles, his touch featherlight but electric.” I pause, feeling the weight of Rafael’s presence at my back.
Before I can continue, his deep voice fills the space between us.
“ ‘You’re beautiful,’ ” he reads softly.
I peek over my shoulder at him, the heat of his breath so close to my ear making my pulse jump. “What are you doing?”
“Keep going,” he urges, his hand gently resting on the book to keep it open.
“Seriously, I don’t want to—”
“The one,” he begins singing, immediately catching other people’s attention, “desiiire—”
“Okay, okay.” I hesitate, then focus back on the page. “Her breath caught in her throat as his hand traveled higher, settling against her cheek. She tilted her head, leaning into the warmth of his palm. ‘Luca,’ she whispered.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, his body brushing against mine. “ ‘Tell me to stop,’ ” he reads in a low murmur. “ ‘Tell me to go, and I’ll do as you say.’ ”
I can barely see the page now, and my heart is pounding.
My fingers grip the book tighter, my breath coming faster.
I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the page, yet I’m hyperaware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between us.
“I’m pretty sure Luca didn’t speak directly into Simone’s ear like that,” I protest.
“Creative interpretation.” He taps the page. “Your turn.”
I reluctantly comply. “Her voice trembled. ‘I don’t want you to stop.’ His lips hovered just inches from hers, and time seemed to hold its breath as…” The words catch in my throat as I see where this is going.
“He kissed her, slow and deep, his hand slipping to her waist to pull her closer,” Rafael continues for me.
Of course the random page I chose would be their first kiss.
At least, I hope that’s all this is.
I skim the next section, and, noticing it includes words like “heated core” and “throbbing erection,” I snap the book shut with a sharp thwap, nearly smacking his fingers, then hand it over. “Okay, that’s enough.”
He chuckles softly as I put some distance between us and pretend to be busy straightening the books on the shelf in front of me. “Not what I’m looking for,” I say, proud that I sound almost normal now.
“No? I thought it had potential. A little mystery, a little romance, a lot of sexual tension.”
Is he still talking about the book? Seriously, this is getting out of hand. I thought I’d frustrate him to death, not that we’d read smut together. “Nope. Not my thing.”
“Kinda looked like your thing,” he mutters under his breath, but when I glare, he sets the book down and raises both hands in surrender. “Please, continue your shopping.”
I do, grabbing another three books to add to my stack. I stretch the whole process as long as I can, but there are no more bookshelves to explore, there is no more acceptable stalling, and he’s still relaxed and upbeat, like he has nothing better to do than watch me shop for books.
“We can go,” I concede.
One of his brows quirks in question. “You sure?” When I nod, he studies me, as if waiting for me to change my mind, then gestures toward the cashier. “All right,” he says, walking ahead of me.
He pulls out his card, and I hurry to catch up. “What are you doing?”
“Buying a book,” he says nonchalantly.
I narrow my eyes on him. “What book?”
“This one.” He sets The Love Alibi on the counter.
I blink in surprise. When did he even grab it? And since when is book-buying part of the bad-boy package—and why is it working on me?
“N-no, you’re not. What for? You’ll never read it.”
He tilts his head at me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “What are you, the book police?”
I’d like to retort, but no words come out. “Why do you want it?”
He just shrugs, that mischievous glint in his eyes growing stronger. “Maybe I want to see what happens next. Don’t you?”