Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
maya
There’s nothing better than the smell of books.
The almond and vanilla tang is better than any perfume, freshly baked cake, or bouquet of flowers.
The instant I step into the Book Nook, I’m surrounded by it.
Shoulder-high bookshelves divide the store into sections and line the walls.
New releases occupy the endcaps, and top sellers and timeless classics adorn square tables scattered throughout the space.
Tucked away in the back are comfy reading chairs, where customers can curl up with a book in one hand and a coffee in the other.
The owner of the store went prematurely gray last year when we added a counter for coffee and pastries.
For months, each clank of the hammer and whir of the power drill were a personal affront to her existence.
But the new setup draws in fresh faces. While our prime location gives us constant foot traffic, we can always use a little extra boost in an industry that’s increasingly digital.
And having a best friend who knows the best bakers in town is a bonus, since her pastry connections have the bookstore smelling like a dream every morning.
Not even Blythe can deny that freshly baked cinnamon rolls and Danishes add to the store’s welcoming atmosphere.
I take a sip of my large Boston Bean coffee and survey the store, relishing how quickly the warm liquid fights off the haze of exhaustion.
Sunday shifts always suck, especially after being out late the night before.
The three espresso martinis I put away had me up until three a.m., and that’s enough to turn anyone into a grouch.
So here I am, bleary-eyed and far from bushy tailed.
The morning passes by in a blur. A small group of college-age girls wander in with hot chocolates, and we chat about cowboy romances before they leave with a couple of steamy novels and a new historical fiction pick.
I recommend a few sci-fi books to a pair of twin boys who—according to their mother—are addicted to video games and need to put their brains to good use.
After I had to gently explain to them that while aspects of science fiction could be based in fact, they were not replacements for their science textbooks, I agree.
I’m pricing new merchandise in the back office when Katrina, my assistant manager, pops her head in to tell me I have a visitor.
Before I can ask who it is, she’s hurried off again. Okay, then.
I make my way to the front of the store, dusting off my hands.
But I stop dead in my tracks when I catch sight of my visitor.
Hovering over the round table that houses our staff picks and recommendations is Nicholas Berrett.
Yep. The two-time Stanley Cup winner and star center of the Boston Bobcats.
I thought he looked familiar last night, but I chalked it up to alcohol and his insanely good looks.
Because this man is seriously gorgeous enough to be on the cover of one of my spicy romance books.
It wasn’t until Kennedy nearly had a panic attack after finding us talking that I learned “Cole” is actually Nicholas.
There’s no way he just happened to wander into the Book Nook. Especially when he more or less admitted that he hasn’t read anything other than the directions on a bottle of laundry detergent in the past year.
So why the hell is he here?
I will myself to focus on that question instead of how good he looks.
Because damn, does he look incredible. His espresso-colored locks fall over his forehead in a way that’s too sexy to be accidental and his jeans and jacket hug his toned body, making it obvious that he sees the value in both arm day and leg day.
How I carried on a normal conversation with him rather than stare at him like a love-struck teenager is beyond me. Because men as beautiful as he is—especially famous athletes—don’t come around often. And if they do, they’re not coming around for me.
Swallowing the knot of nerves building in my throat, I take a steadying breath and make myself walk over to him.
“Anything catching your eye?” I greet him, praying I come across as cool and casual. Internally, my stomach flips like it’s training for the Olympics. I’m about five seconds away from becoming a gold medalist.
At the sound of my voice, he looks up, and a slow, easy smile spreads across his face. It sends a shot of adrenaline straight to my lady bits. He’s just as muscular and manly as I remember, with a jawline that’s likely sharper than his skates.
“Most definitely,” he replies, wearing a smirk.
I ignore the pointed comment and gesture to the book in his hand. “So you’re into alien smut?”
Cole flings Mated to the Alien Mercenary onto the table like it’s a hot potato. “What?” His eyes go wide and he stumbles back a step. “No. I don’t read… alien, uh, whatever.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” I bite back a smile at his awkwardness. “Openly reading smut is part of the newest wave of feminism.”
Cole has already composed himself. So much so that he shoots me a wink that should be cheesy but somehow lands dangerously close to charming.
The way his amber eyes sear into mine like they’re cataloging my every reaction has me blushing like I forgot to put on SPF before a day at Franklin Park.
“Please enlighten me about this smut you speak of, Maya.”
“Maybe another time, Cole.” Eyes narrowed, I cock my head. “Or should I say… Nicholas?”
The dimple in his right cheek softens his sharp features marginally as he holds up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry; but it’s rare that someone doesn’t recognize me. All my close friends do call me Cole, though. I only go by Nicholas professionally.”
Scrunching up my toes in my boots, I shrug it off. I’ve learned from my mother that the omission of the truth can be as harmful as a lie, but his explanation makes sense. I didn’t sense any underlying motive then, and I don’t now. “Apology accepted.”
“And in my defense, you told me you were a travel agent,” he says, his grin firmly in place, “to a weather-forecasting groundhog.”
A compulsion to flee hits me hard. When the memory surfaces, I want nothing more than to hide under one of the reading tables in the back.
I’ve never hated that weird habit of mine until now.
My throat closes up, so though I don’t dart away, all I can do is stare at him dumbly, which only adds to my mortification.
At least I didn’t tell him I was a paranormal bounty hunter who sells rare Twilight paraphernalia on the side.
“Hmm.” He picks up Mated to the Alien Mercenary again and lazily thumbs through the pages. “I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found out you worked at a bookstore, considering you brought your e-reader to a party.”
Nerves skitter through me. “It’s no different from people bringing an emotional support dog with them to a party,” I blurt, like that’s a completely normal and valid comparison. “So you shouldn’t take it personally.”
Did I just imply I have an emotional support e-reader?
“Fair,” he concedes, his lips twitching, “but I do take it personally that you think so poorly of hockey.” He slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out two tickets like he’s a magician revealing that he’s had my card all along.
The right side is emblazoned with the Bobcats’ blue and gray logo.
There’s a barcode on the left, and in bold black font, the words Reserved Club-Level are spelled out. “These are for you.”
I frown down at the tickets. Why is he giving these to me? Gingerly taking them from his hand, I force my expression to morph into something resembling a smile. “Thank you.” I think?
He grins at my lackluster response. “Don’t get too excited, My.”
I don’t comment on the over-familiar nickname, even as my heart thuds against my breastbone. “Of course I’m excited. Do you know how much money I’ll get when I resell these online? I’m about to pay off my credit card and treat myself to dinner.”
His smile falls, turning into what can only be described as a pout. An annoyingly adorable, offensively cute pout. No man over six feet with stubble should be capable of pouting like that.
“I’m kidding,” I reassure him with a laugh.
The edge of his lips quirks up. “Come to the game. We’ll grab a drink after, and I can answer any questions you have about what the hell happened on the ice.”
I haven’t been asked out in person since the invention of dating apps, which I haven’t bothered to redownload since I ended things with my ex, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that flicker of interest in his eyes.
I am, however, mildly confused as to why it’s there. He’s so far out of my league, it’s borderline pathetic. Just looking at him ruins all other men for me, and we’ve done nothing but talk.
“Oh. That’s… well, that’s an interesting proposal.”
“It’s tickets to a game, not an engagement ring.” He shoots me a lazy grin.
Warmth creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. Though I take a step back to create some space between us, I keep my chin lifted and my tone nonchalant. “Are drinks included with these tickets?”
“Are you negotiating your attendance?”
“If I was, my lawyer would be here.” I cross my arms over my chest in mock defiance. “Although if you are open to negotiations, I wouldn’t mind if nachos were on the table as well.”
He licks his lips, those amber eyes glinting. “If I provide you not only with seats but with nachos and unlimited alcohol, you’ll come to the game? It’s a private box, by the way.”
I bite my lower lip as I pretend to think about it. All the while, my heart is leaping all over the place. Eventually, I nod once.
“I’ve never had to convince someone to attend a hockey game.” He runs a hand through his hair, his expression full of humor.
“You’ve also never read alien smut,” I point out.
This earns me a laugh that makes me melt like a stick of butter. It’s official. I’m a puddle on the floor.
While Cole doesn’t purchase the book he originally picked up, he does buy a collector’s edition of Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales. It’s a beautifully designed tome, with bonded-leather binding and distinctive gilt edging, so I make sure to wrap it carefully.
The moment he exits the shop, I power-walk—because I refuse to run unless I’m being chased—to the back of the store and video call Kennedy.
Her pearly white teeth fill half the screen almost instantaneously.
There’s a smudge of flour or baking powder on her left cheek and her honey-blond hair is tied up in a messy bun.
My best friend only succumbs to the messy bun look when she’s in the throes of a new recipe.
As her favorite test subject, I’d usually ask what she’s working on, but my mind is too preoccupied.
“Guess who just showed up at the store?” Before she can answer, I hold up my hand. “It’s rhetorical, Kennedy. You know Cole showed up here because you told him where I worked.”
Eyes dancing, she licks some type of batter off a spoon. “It wasn’t rhetorical because I didn’t know he’d do that. And technically I didn’t tell him. I merely passed along some basic info on where, when, and how to find ‘someone named Maya’ when asked.”
“You cannot just—”
“Don’t get mad at me for hyping you up as any good bestie would.” She flashes me a smile that’s anything but innocent.
After twenty years of friendship, I know this look all too well.
She gave it to me when we met on the first day of second grade, when she tried to charm me into trading erasers—her green one for my sparkly purple one.
It was obviously a shit deal. Even eight-year-old me knew that.
I told her to shove it up her ass in a way that was much more age appropriate.
Her response? She giggled and announced we were best friends.
We have been ever since. Although I’m debating the merit of such friendship right about now.
“He gave me tickets to his game,” I tell her, not bothering to hide the utter skepticism in my voice. “They’re box seats.”
I can’t figure out his angle. Is it because I said I didn’t like hockey?
Or that I didn’t fall all over myself when I realized what he does for a living?
I’ve been told by almost every ex that I’m ball-breakingly stubborn, so maybe he sees me as a challenge and is trying to break through my indifference just to prove he can.
“Anything else? Did he ask you for a kidney? Threaten to throw you out of a window? Trick you into giving him your social security number?”
Frowning, I zero in on her. “Well, uh, no.”
“Then stop being so suspicious.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts.” She levels me with a look that means she’s not fucking around. “He wants to get to know you better. Let him. It’s a damn hockey game. Nothing more, nothing less. Bring your brother and enjoy the VIP experience.”
After a pregnant pause, I sigh, exhaling the questions still floating around in my head. “Fine. But I’m bringing a book in case I get bored.”
The tension drops away from the corners of her eyes. Chuckling under her breath, she says, “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”