Chapter Ten #4
Just as Flynn locked his door and pocketed his keys, Garrett appeared in the hallway and headed toward him.
They’d been neighbors for three months, occasionally hanging out.
Flynn didn’t have the bandwidth for Garrett this early in the morning.
Yet there he was, materializing in the hallway like a handsome inconvenience.
“Flynn.” Garrett’s grin arrived before the rest of him, all easy confidence and teeth that probably had their own Instagram account. He fell into step beside Flynn without being invited, which was very on brand. “You look incredible. What’s your secret?”
His flattery was shameless.
“Mild existential dread and forgetting to eat dinner.” Flynn started toward the stairwell. “Works wonders for the complexion.”
Garrett laughed, the sound bouncing off the narrow walls. He had one of those laughs that made people want to say funnier things just to hear it again, which Flynn found deeply annoying because it worked on him every time.
“Where’re you headed?” He matched Flynn’s pace the entire way down. Was he flexing? The guy lived in a gym, body so buff that Flynn wondered—Nope. Too early for indecent thoughts.
“Work.” Flynn gripped the railing on the turn. “The place I go every morning. On account of needing money to survive.” His predictable day was starting.
Colton’s observation had rattled Flynn more than he liked. Because it was true. Flynn was only twenty-six, his life so boring he’d become someone’s deranged obsession. Maybe he would look into a pottery class. Maybe Flynn would be even more adventurous and learn to crochet.
Some of his fondest memories centered around his nana sitting in her threadbare recliner, regaling Flynn with stories of her childhood. He was pretty sure she exaggerated most of them but didn’t care. Matida had been the safe harbor he’d needed in his otherwise chaotic life.
Deadbeat dad. Alcoholic mother. A cousin who’d split town after a really bad fight with his dad. Josh had been hotheaded, but underneath the anger, had been the most caring man Flynn had ever met. His cousin just hadn’t had many opportunities to show who he truly was.
Except for Flynn. Josh had never turned his rage on Flynn. He’d beaten up Flynn’s bullies, threatening worse if they so much as looked in Flynn’s direction.
He never understood what could’ve been worse than getting your butt kicked. He never asked because he never wanted to envision his cousin in a bad light.
Garrett’s shoulder bumped lightly against Flynn’s at the bottom landing, the contact brief and most likely accidental. Flynn was just grateful the contact pulled his mind away from memories best left buried.
“Hey, actually—” Garrett caught the door before it swung shut behind Flynn. “You still have that drill? The one you mentioned borrowing from your boss?”
Flynn stopped midstride and turned. The morning sun hit Garrett’s face at an angle that made his green eyes sparkle.
“So annoying,” Flynn muttered.
“What?” Garrett’s smile widened. Flynn was no longer moved by it.
“Nothing. I’m late.” He pointed down the street then started walking. “Malcolm has the drill, not me. And I cannot be your hardware liaison today.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe ask me when I’m not actively fleeing.”
Garrett’s laugh followed him half a block. Flynn hadn’t been joking.
The walk to Dusty Spine took nine minutes on a good day, eleven when Flynn’s brain was running thirty-seven browser tabs, two frozen windows, while mysterious music played somewhere.
Today it took twelve minutes. He passed the bakery without stopping, which felt like a personal failure, and arrived at the bookstore two minutes late.
The familiar smell of old paper hit him the moment he pushed through the door, and some of that morning's tension loosened a little. Flynn flipped on the remaining lights, straightened the display near the entrance that had somehow listed overnight, and clocked in.
By nine-fifteen, the morning had settled into its usual rhythm.
A retired teacher spent forty minutes in the poetry section before buying nothing.
Then she tried to “educate” him with a cultured tone, unaware Flynn knew the works she was misquoting with a hacksaw.
He’d only read the CliffsNotes, but it worked.
A college student asked for a recommendation and then argued with every suggestion.
“I refuse to be a frat prank before I’ve guzzled a jug of coffee. Piss off.” Flynn walked away, but not before seeing the bastard’s smirk. If assholes didn’t stop trying his patience this morning, Flynn was going to need bail money.
He sold three paperbacks, one hardcover, and a bookmark to a woman who said she didn’t like reading but loved how a full bookshelf made her look smart. Flynn just smiled, telling himself to forget about Colton’s stupid revelation.
Somewhere around ten, he was restocking the fiction shelf near the front when the door opened.
“Let me know if you need help;” Flynn called out. He was holding a paperback in each hand, trying to remember which one he’d recommended versus which one he’d shelved there by accident a week ago. “Just pick one already,” he muttered.
Closing his eyes, Flynn shuffled the books in his hands, then shoved the one in his right hand toward the shelf, missing the empty space by a mile. “You always did suck at pinning tails on jackasses.”
“Maybe jackasses didn’t deserve your effort.”
Flynn turned to find a man standing a few feet away, his expression suggesting he already owned the room.
Not arrogance. Just confident. Dark hair swept back from angular features, eyes the perfect color of a cloudless summer sky.
The low-trimmed facial hair made him look roguish, like he could wreck you, and you’d beg for more.
He couldn’t be real. A sexy noir-type who’d escaped one of the romance covers. Flynn blew into his hand, checking his breath. Even though he was sure this was a hallucination, fresh breath was important.
“Paperback pimp.” Flynn’s brows shot up, lips parting. Why on earth had he said that?
Claim insanity, Hide by the cookbooks. Die of mortification.
“Excuse me while I walk into the ocean.” Flynn stood there crushing a copy of Beloved against his chest, completely motionless, his body deciding breathing was optional.
What if he was Flynn’s stalker who’d finally decided to make his move?
If he was, the universe was a cruel bitch.
There was no way it would make his stalker this roguish hunk and not expect Flynn to give in to his every demand.
Casually—or what he hoped read as casually—he turned toward the counter and breathed into his cupped palm. Coffee. Okay. Not offensive. Passable.
Flynn set Beloved on the shelf. Possibly in the wrong spot. He’d deal with that later. There was a much bigger problem to deal with at the moment.
Get to counter. Call cops. Hope they believe you.
Stepping to the side, Flynn eased past the tall, muscly hunk, moving slowly so he didn’t trigger the guy to chase, grab, kiss, whatever. Act casually. Play it cool, and you might survive this.
Flynn made it behind the counter, Roguish Hunk watching him closely. Was he trying to figure the best method to kidnap Flynn or which murder method to use?
The stranger crossed the floor in a slow gait, every step quieter than it should’ve been for a man his size.
Act casual. Right.
Flynn leaned his elbow on top of a recently returned stack of books, trying to appear totally unimpressed by attractive strangers who may or may not be deranged.
The stack collapsed sideways, sending an avalanche of books raining down to the floor as Flynn’s elbow hit the counter with a crack that echoed.
“Fuck” He straightened immediately. Both hands flat on the counter. So much for playing it cool.
Roguish Hunk’s eyebrow arched, which only made him sexier. His blue eyes danced with amusement Flynn did not appreciate. Gorgeous men were not allowed to make fun of average people. If that wasn’t some sort of law, it should be.
“So, how can I help you?” Flynn resisted the urge to cradle his throbbing elbow.
“You Flynn?” The stranger’s voice was velvet-coated seduction. Sin wrapped in silk. If he hadn’t escaped one of the romance covers, he definitely belonged on one. The pregnancy books would fly off the shelf.
“That depends on if my day is about to get better or worse.” Flynn tucked his hands into his back pockets, resting his fingers over his cell phone. Just in case. “Yesterday was a train wreck, so I’m hoping for rainbows and puppies today. You giving me rainbows or are you the storm?”
“I eliminate bad weather.” He extended his hand. “Zavier Ariotti. Your bodyguard.”
Flynn took the offered hand. Zavier’s grip was firm but gentle. Reluctantly, Flynn released it.
I’m never washing my hand again.
Chapter Three
Zavier furrowed his brows as the bookstore suddenly smelled like morning dew in the countryside. His Bengal tiger sat up and took notice, scenting the air with a low growl.
The pull hit like a bullet Zavier hadn’t heard fired. In the space of a breath, Flynn was carved into him at the cellular level, transforming Zavier into a lethal weapon who would leave carnage in his wake to keep his mate safe.
This was no longer just a job. Flynn Duncan had become Zavier’s entire existence.
“Colton sent you.” Flynn’s shoulders relaxed. “To sweep my house.”
Zavier chuckled, absolutely obliterated by his mate’s quirky charm. “I don’t mind domestic work.”
Flynn dropped to the floor. Confused, Zavier glanced over the counter and saw his mate collecting fallen books.
“Colten filled me in on what’s going on, but would you mind if I dug a little deeper?” Crouching beside Flynn, Zavier picked up paperbacks, his fingers briefly brushing Flynn’s.
“Dig away.” His mate jerked his hand away, then stacked some of the paperbacks against his forearm. “I’m an open book. Pun absolutely intended, zero shame.”