Chapter 3
Sex drought
Zoey
Bald eagle victims before gentlemen. I insist,” Gage said, holding the door.
I rolled my eyes.
I’d suspected for some time that the man didn’t like me.
I usually had a sixth sense when it came to reading people.
Gage Bishop was the nicest guy in the room…
to everyone except me. It was like there was something about me he found inherently distasteful but he was too polite to actually say it.
Which felt like a waste of time and energy to me.
The guy was obviously still mad at me for my irresponsible, snake-induced fifty-yard dash into traffic and accidental insult to his family, yet here he was still being performatively polite.
It was annoying. Why couldn’t people just be honest?
He was probably just as polite and gentlemanly in bed, I decided. “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you mind if I insert my cock inside you repeatedly?”
Hmm. Interesting. Imaginary Gage was surprisingly well equipped.
“What?” Gage asked.
I blinked myself back to reality to find him watching me closely, still holding the door.
“What what?” I asked, all feigned innocence and telltale hot cheeks.
Those bold Bishop eyes narrowed. “You look like you’re up to something.”
“You don’t know me well enough to know when I’m up to something.” I brushed past him into the store and took a deep breath.
Ahh, the smell of books. It was the smell of possibilities.
Thousands of books on shelves written by people who had done hard things, lived interesting lives, and managed to write entire novels about it. Bookstores always gave me hope that they held the answers I was looking for so I could finally get my life together.
“Outta the way.” A prune-faced elderly white man with glasses so thick they looked like microscope lenses whizzed by me on a mobility scooter with airbrushed flames.
Ever the reluctant gentleman, Gage pulled me out of harm’s way, putting my back in full contact with his front.
Damn. It was a very nice front. Hard, muscled, warm. And the flannel coat was giving just the right amount of romance-novel blue collar. My body foolishly delighted in the physical contact.
My sex drought was definitely getting out of control if just casually brushing against any male body could have me thinking about getting naked.
“You need a guardian angel,” Gage complained, releasing me.
“That one was not my fault,” I insisted.
“Watch where you’re going, George, or they’ll kick us out of here,” warned the scooter man’s compatriot, a tall, soft Black woman with springy silver curls. She was using her walker as a seat planted in front of a spinning rack of science fiction novels.
“Not my fault these aisles are tighter than a butthole in here,” George the aggressive driver shouted back from the historical Western section.
I took a self-preserving step away from Gage. I needed to get away from the one-sided sexual tension before I did or said something I’d regret.
I glanced back at him and almost tripped over my own feet when I realized his gaze was locked on the general vicinity of my butt. Maybe he didn’t hate all of me after all.
I cleared my throat smugly, and his eyes darted back up to mine.
“You…uh…have some dirt.” He gestured at my rear end.
Damn it. Of course I did.
“Thanks,” I muttered and ducked into the restroom.
When I came back out—dirt smears mostly replaced with water spots—Hazel and Chevy, the store owner, were already stacking paperback orders on her designated signing table. Both dogs were staring longingly at the jar of treats at the register that Gage had his hand in.
“Everybody sit,” Gage said. The dogs plopped their butts on the floor in unison, tails wagging.
I pretended to be deeply invested in the back cover copy of a new celebrity biography so I could study him from behind the cover.
He was the clean-shaven, easygoing brother who was openly friendly with everyone who wasn’t me.
His hair, a warm brown, curled at the tips, giving him one of those permanently tousled look.
He looked like the type of guy who would help an old lady load her groceries into her car.
Could it be called boyish charm if it was coming out of the chiseled face of a man? I’d have to ask Hazel, the expert.
Not that it mattered, of course. The bottom line was Gage Bishop was so far from my type that I’d be more likely to date my own second cousin than him.
He crouched down, a treat in each hand, drawing my attention reluctantly to his muscular, denim-clad thighs.
I sighed and gritted my teeth. Okay, the sex drought was officially a problem.
Lust ’em and leave ’em was my motto. But this town was too small for that.
Everyone would know about my tryst before I even unhooked my bra.
And I absolutely would not lure Hazel’s future brother-in-law—who didn’t even like me—into a one-night stand.
Even though I totally could.
If I wanted to.
Which I absolutely didn’t.
“You look like you want to eat him up.”
Startled, I dropped the hardback on the table with a thump. The basket on the front of the woman’s walker was full of novels.
“Who? Me? What? Him? No. Nope.” I shook my head vehemently until I was dizzy.
She smirked. “Very convincing.”
“He’s so not my type.”
She looked at me like I’d just offered to give her an unlicensed colonoscopy. “Who gives a shit? Life is short. Order dessert. Bang the hot guy.”
“Thank you for the advice on my sex life, complete stranger.”
“Opal,” she said. “And you’re wasting your time worrying about types and all that other garbage. You only get one life. Some of us might as well have some fun living it.”
She clomped away with her walker, leaving me staring after her. People sure were nosy—and free with their advice—around here.
“Opal, when are you going to talk George here into taking my class?” Hazel called, pointing to the man on the scooter. Of course she knew both their names. She was an official Story Laker now, and knowing your neighbors was probably required by some obscure town ordinance.
Opal rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Hazel. You don’t want this troublemaker in your class.”
“I’ll show up when I got nothing better to do, and I always got something better to do,” George barked back as he executed a thirty-seven-point turn.
Hazel had recently started teaching a creative writing class at Story Lake Haven and seemed to be enjoying it. Author, town council member, now teacher. She’d come a long way from the unshowered introvert who refused to leave her apartment for weeks at a time.
I skirted a display of illustrated children’s books and took a turn at the table laden with local history tomes mixed with glossy green plants.
“What’s with the greenery, Chevy?” I asked.
The store owner looked up from the stack of Hazel’s paperbacks he was organizing.
He was a big guy in both height and width, dressed—as always—in baggy jeans, sneakers, and his musical artist T-shirt of the day.
Today it was Miles Davis. Chevy had played college football for three seasons before an injury left him focusing on his dual library science and music history degrees.
“Trying out a cross-promotion with Leafy Greens. I traded them a stack of gardening books to display at their place,” he said.
Inspiration struck, and I opened the note app on my phone.
I scrolled through a few pages of previous brilliant ideas, shopping lists, and philosophical wonderings that I’d forgotten and was just getting ready to make note that I should drop off some of Hazel’s books at the plant shop when I felt a presence looming over my shoulder.
“You know they let you make more than one note, don’t you? You don’t have to put them all in the same file,” Gage pointed out.
I hugged my phone to my chest. “I have a system, Nosey McNoserton.”
Okay. I didn’t actually have a system. But I had the intention to create and utilize a system. That was basically the same thing.
“Doesn’t look like a very efficient one.”
“Don’t you have several jobs to go do somewhere that aren’t here?” I asked pointedly.
“You mean now that I’m not busy saving your life?”
“I’m putting shrimp on my grocery list,” I warned.
“Do us all a favor and stay out of the road,” he said. “See you around, Hazel.”
“Thanks for the ride, Gage. Give Cam a kiss for me,” Hazel called.
“Yeah, definitely not doing that. See you later, Chevy. C’mon, Nana. Let’s go find your uncles before they do something stupid.”
Nana made a pathetic-sounding grumble in her throat that had a fluffy black-and-white cat I hadn’t noticed before vaulting onto the table next to me.
I barely contained my squeak of surprise.
What was it with this town and animals? In New York, I only had to worry about clouds of pigeons, the occasional dog walker with a dozen tiny Yorkies, and the rats on trash day.
Story Lake was like wandering around a twenty-four-seven free-range petting zoo.
By the time Gage and his dog left the store—not that I was watching or admiring his dirt-free ass—I’d forgotten what I wanted to make note of. On an annoyed sigh, I plopped down on a spinning stool near the register while Hazel and Chevy worked their way through the signed orders.
“Hey, how are your preorders for the new release looking, Chev?” I asked.
“Looking good. Biggest preorder this store has seen. There’s a sticky note on the register with the numbers as of this morning.”
I leaned over the counter and plucked the sticky note off the monitor. “Hmm. Not bad. But I think we can get to wow.”
Hazel snorted as she scrawled her name on the page.
“What’s wow?” Chevy asked, opening the next book and sliding it in front of Hazel.
“I want bestsellers-list numbers. Numbers that have the rest of the publishing industry whispering uncomplimentary things about me behind my back because they wish they had Hazel as a client.”
“You’re officially ridiculous,” Hazel said, reaching for the next book.