CHAPTER 26 – CASPIAN
I place a box of dark romances on the bookshop counter and clear my throat. Ann-Sabrina startles and hastily sets aside her book. It’s called Klaus Is Coming and the cover shows a smoldering vampire whose pants are purely ornamental.
I give her an amused look. “I Saw Mommy Kissing Vampire Klaus.”
“Shut up.”
“This was the last box. You need anything else?” The hopefulness in my tone makes me cringe, but I don’t want to go home yet.
“A sex life would be great,” she sighs. Then she grins. “Don’t worry. I know you can’t help me with that.”
“I’m living like a monk these days anyway,” I mutter, my thoughts once again returning to Antonio. My current situation is so far from what I usually do with my free time that I wouldn’t be surprised if the staff at Gaywood were already organizing a search party.
“Have you thought about going back?” Ann-Sabrina asks.
She knows about Antonio. She’s full of ideas—none of which are doable. I’m not, for example, going to wear a mask, kidnap Antonio, and make him fall in love with me in a secluded cottage.
“You mean have I thought about going back and humiliating myself for the fourth time?” My shoulders slump. “All the time.”
“Oh, let’s go together! I can do the whole fake-orgasm thing à la Meg Ryan and tell Antonio I came just from looking at you.”
“I have no idea what you just said, but I know I don’t want it.”
“It’s from When Harry Met Sally. The iconic moment at the diner when Sally teaches Harry a lesson?”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“It’s an ancient movie, but still funny. Listen to this.” Ann-Sabrina starts moaning like she’s in terrible pain. I look at her in alarm as the noises become louder and louder.
“Well? Did I convince you?” she asks breathlessly when she finally stops.
“Yes. You convinced me of the necessity of avoiding you in public.”
Someone clears their throat behind us. To Ann-Sabrina’s credit, she doesn’t even flinch. She just straightens the Fae crown she often wears in the store, takes a sip of water, and turns toward the door.
I recognize the customer immediately. He’s Rowan Harlington, the new literature professor whose reputation has half the campus breathing into a paper bag. He’s wearing a crisp blue shirt, sleeves rolled up enough to suggest his hands do more than grade papers.
He’s also wearing a displeased frown.
“I’d like to speak to the person in charge.”
“I’d like to speak to the person in charge, please,” Ann-Sabrina says sweetly.
“Jesus,” Harlington mutters, but he manages to choke out the ‘please’.
Ann-Sabrina winks. “Here she is.”
“You? Surely not.”
“What do you mean by that? Are you terrified of women? Shocked to see a female out and about without a chaperone?” Ann-Sabrina asks, crossing her arms. Nothing sets her off faster than a misogynist.
“Not at all. I’m just surprised that you aren’t on your way to Hollywood with those acting skills you demonstrated.”
Harlington’s eyes flick toward me, assessing me.
“I’m just an errand boy,” I say.
He frowns, then turns his attention back to my friend. “Do you have Hardy and Dickens in stock?”
“Nope,” she replies cheerfully.
“Nope?” Harlington repeats. He looks like he’s getting a migraine. “Well, when are you restocking?”
“I’m not. I have a limited shelf and storage space. Wasting that on boring men wouldn’t be a good business strategy,” Ann-Sabrina says.
Harlington glances at her trophy shelf—the Shadow Daddy altar of romantasy and dark romance. “I see,” he harrumphs. “Does this unrealistic hunk junk make for a better strategy?”
Ann-Sabrina hisses, and I realize there is something that sets her off faster than a misogynist: a misogynist who looks down on romance.
“My shirtless men pay more than half of this store’s bills, you sanctimonious scarecrow.”
Harlington’s lips twitch. “I hope you didn’t just call your customer a scarecrow.”
She huffs. “I didn’t. You aren’t going to buy anything anyway. You’re obviously one of those jerks who think romance isn’t literature.”
“Of course it’s literature,” Harlington replies smoothly. “The same way French fries are food. Enjoyable, certainly, but not exactly nourishing.”
Instead of attacking the professor with scissors like I assumed, Ann-Sabrina dismisses him and returns behind the counter.
“Fair enough. I learned your views on romance, and you learned I don’t stock your boner-killers.”
A dismissal by a young woman wearing a CRUSH THE PATRIARCHY t-shirt and a fake crown is probably not what Harlington had in mind when he entered the shop.
“Don’t let the door hit you on your way out,” she says, not even looking at him anymore.
After he has stepped out, Ann-Sabrina releases a long breath.
“Did you notice his arms? I wonder what he does for a living.”
“He’s a literature professor.”
“That explains a lot.” My friend admires her nails. “Enemies to lovers has always been my favorite trope. Maybe I should attend one of his lectures and cause some chaos.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
“So, about Antonio. Should I book a table for our night of pasta and fake orgasms?”
“Please don’t. Besides, I’m not going back there. He said no, and I respect that.”
I’m not going to lose hope, though. After all, hope is all I have.