Ollie #3
“This one,” I say, sliding a book out from the shelf.
“This author always has a masculine man with a more dainty, feminine one. She pulls it off so well. There are three in this series so far, but I heard the fourth one is coming out at the beginning of the year. This one is my favorite—it’s a boxer with a ballet dancer. ”
Mason takes the book from me, turning it over to read the back.
“Do you have the others?” he asks, flicking his gaze up to me.
“Of course.”
He holds out his hand.
“You don’t want to read this one first?” I ask as I reach for the other books.
“I trust your judgement.”
Well, that goes straight to my dick too.
I smile as I grab the other two in the series and hand them over.
“They’re all good, by the way. The second book is a detective and a stripper. It has some mystery vibes to it, a little bit of thriller, I guess. And the third is a construction worker and an artist. Age gap. Forbidden. But that’s all I’m telling you. Don’t want to ruin it.”
He smiles. “I appreciate that.”
“Let me ring you up,” I say as I make my way back toward the counter with him behind me.
I scan the books and put them into a bag. “Is there anything else you need today?” I ask.
“Your phone number.”
“I—” I smile, then chuckle. “All right.”
I take one of our complimentary bookmarks with the store name and logo and write my number on the bottom with the black marker. I hand it to him, give him the total, and he pays. He slips the bookmark into the bag.
“What time are you working until today?” he asks.
“Closing. I’m here until eight.”
He nods, winks, then turns to leave.
Only to show up again around six.
* * *
“Are you working alone?” he asks.
“No, Sierra is with me, but she’s on break.”
“When do you get your break?”
“I already had it.”
He looks slightly disappointed.
“Can I get you anything? Food? A coffee?”
I smile. “Thank you, but I’m good. Is there anything I can get you?”
He shrugs. “Just here to browse.”
“You didn’t do enough of that earlier?”
He looks at me, eyes narrowing slightly. They flick to my mouth and then back up.
“Definitely not.”
A chill runs through my body. My throat goes dry, and I want to say something, but my brain is blank. How does he do this to me? Nothing makes my brain quiet. Not like he does.
“Did you get a chance to check out those books?” I ask.
“No, I haven’t been home yet.”
“Where is home?”
“West end. You?”
“West end,” I answer. “Huckleberry Ave.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m like three blocks from there on Olive.”
“Seriously?” I huff a laugh. “What a coincidence.”
“Can I give you a ride home tonight?” he asks. “You know, since we’re so close and all. It’ll be convenient. For us both.”
“I don’t leave for another two hours,” I say carefully.
Shrugging, he says, “I can wait. Maybe… hang out?”
This man is so sweet!
“Please do. Thursday evenings are always so boring.”
We talk about books the entire time. He tells me about the books he’s read, and the authors he loves. About how he doesn’t have enough time to read because of work and adult responsibilities. Do any of us?
Sierra leaves when it’s time to close, but I hang back to organize a few things, and Mason stays with me to help. It’s sweet of him. But the sweetness quickly turns spicy when he corners me in the nook, staring down at me with so much heat in his eyes I don’t know how he hasn’t combusted.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a really long time,” he admits, his voice low and raspy. His earthy scent fills my nose, and I breathe him in.
“So do it,” I challenge.
He leans in, his hand going to the back of my head as his lips meet mine. I whimper, pressing my body against his and grasping at his shirt. He pulls back too quickly, and I’m left breathless. His hand still rests on the back of my head, until he runs his fingers through my hair.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” he says. “It’s so soft.”
“You could pull it if you want,” I say daringly.
His pupils dilate, and he lets out a shuddering breath.
“Are you almost done here?”
“I am done here.”
I lock up the store, and we walk to Mason’s truck, which is parked in the lot two blocks over. He’s working on the construction site right by it, re-building a small Italian restaurant that burned down a couple of years ago.
He said he spotted the bookstore when he was looking for food and it took him a few days to go in because he was nervous. I’m so glad he finally made it in.
I direct him to my apartment. He pulls up on the road, putting the car in park but letting it idle.
“Thank you for driving me home,” I say.
“Thank you for letting me.”
I smile, ducking my head as I chew on my lip. I sneak a glance at him to find him staring at me. “Do you want to come in?”
The corner of his lips turn up, and he reaches to turn the car off.
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
He follows me up the path and into the building. My apartment is on the third flood, so we take the elevator. The tension is palpable as we make our way up. My fingers tremble as I unlock my door, swing it open, and gesture for him to go inside.