Chapter 9
Adulting is hard. Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Parents complain about not getting a handbook so they can easily know how to handle their newborn. How can they be asking for help on how to raise a child? Did they forget they’re still trying to figure out how to live their own lives?
Leaving your childhood home, becoming an adult, being directionless, and still getting over your past. Those are the things that need a real manual.
Once upon a time, I swore I knew who I was and where I was going.
I used to feed on the deliciousness of the unpredictability served up by life.
It’s not that I no longer believe in the beauty of surprise, of life-changing moments.
They exist, and when I witness them, I rejoice in their beauty from far away.
I just don’t think I’ll ever experience them personally.
I haven’t lost hope entirely, but I stopped expecting them to happen to me.
So, I live alone, go wherever I want, and have dinner for one without giving a fuck about those who stare at me for being on my own.
Tonight, after dining at the new ramen place on First and Niagara, I walk to the bookstore down by Third and Fillmore. The owner always has a table ready for me where I can work or pretend to work while I browse the new collections.
“I thought you had to work,” Kara, the new assistant manager, says when I slide the ladder from the biography section over to fiction.
“Yeah, but according to your Instagram account,” I say, pulling out my phone and showing her the picture with boxes of used books she received today. “You got in a lot of pretties.”
“Indeed, I’m trying to refrain from buying any of the new romances we got in.”
“What’s stopping you?” I ask. Nothing can stop me from adding to my collection.
“Money,” she says,
I’m tempted to offer her a job, but I resist.
“Ah, doesn’t that stop us all.” I look around. “Are they already on the shelves?”
She nods giving me an excited smile. She reminds me of my grandma and the time we visited her during Easter. She hid eggs all around her garden and enjoyed watching us searching for them.
“The store is your playground.”
“Sure, leave me alone with these beauties and my credit card,” I say, climbing up the ladder so I can start from the top. “I’ll blame you for the bill when it arrives next month.”
My heart skips a beat as I see a book by one of my favorite authors. I adjust my glasses and grab it.
“Hello, beautiful,” I greet it, clutching it to my chest.
It’s a copy of Tender Is the Night by Fitzgerald. It’s a well-preserved first edition, which should be in a glass case—at my house and not here. As I climb down the ladder, I bump into a hard, tall object. More like—a man.
“Careful,” he yells with a deep voice.
I stumble, nearly falling down, but fortunately, I grab onto his shoulders at the same time he wraps his arms around me. Our faces are pretty close together, our mouths only inches apart. I get a whiff of woodsy notes, amber, mixed with a hint of laundry detergent.
I take a good look at him. He’s handsome.
Not just handsome. Five alarm, GQ model hot.
He’s about a foot taller than my five foot three—and three quarters.
Once I find my equilibrium, I take a better look at him.
He’s the total definition of tall, dark, and dangerous.
And he wears a pair of sexy jeans with a jacket, casual, yet elegant. He’s classy.
The man fills the entire bookstore with his presence.
“Are you okay?” his deep, sexy voice asks as he helps me find my footing.
Of course I am. I almost tripped on one of the most good-looking men on the planet.
Keep your cool!
Look at me, hot stranger, I’m the whole definition of poise and unmoved. Just don’t expect me to talk coherently because my mouth went dry.
Oh my God, are you real? Can I touch you? Is it legal to walk around with that handsome face and breathtaking grin?
I want to comb my fingers through his dark, messy hair.
My breath catches as I stare at his intense dark brown eyes, almost as dark as my own.
Fine features with sculpted cheekbones and that jaw.
My hand itches to touch his rough jaw, dusted with a five o’clock shadow or better yet, run my lips over his tanned skin.
There’s something special about him that makes my head spin.
Hot-Guy’s gaze makes a sweep of my body, from head to toe and back. Do I have something in my teeth? Did I brush my hair before I left? I reach for a loose strand and try to remember if I even combed my hair today.
Yes, I did and even took my time to braid it, and I’m glad I reached for my lip gloss before leaving the ramen restaurant.
Fuck, I forgot to put in my contacts. I look like a librarian.
Hmm, we could pretend I’m punishing him for not bringing his books back on time.
Or he can spank me for reading naughty books during working hours.
Snap out of it!
“You seem fine,” he says, meeting my gaze. “More than fine.”
“Fitzgerald?” he asks as he bends down to pick up the book I dropped and examines it.
“Not the Great Gatsby?”
I take a long breath and pull myself together, feeling about as articulate as a table.
You’re better than this. You make men shake in fear, not the other way around. You have one of the most feared CEOs behaving like a decent human after a few weeks of working with him.
I shake my head, taking back my book. “Have you read it?”
“Would you think less of me if I confess that I’ve only read the popular one?”
“You read it in high school,” I guess.
He nods. “Are you a teacher?”
Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “Nope, it’s just an educated guess. I’m not judging you for not reading any of his other books. The school system makes us hate the classics, and once we have the freedom to read, we pick up everything but old authors—or stop reading.”
“Is this as good as the Gatsby?”
The Gatsby? He says it in such a way that I almost laugh but control myself.
“I’d say better, but that’s my humble opinion. Tender is The Night, is my favorite from Fitzgerald because it’s one of the most heartbreaking books. You should read it.”
He takes it back from me, his fingers grazing mine. His touch sends my pulse into overdrive, and I feel like the air is charged with electricity. I’m too aware of his presence, and the heat we create when our skin touches.
Shake it off, girl, he’s just a man.
I compose myself and check the first pages. “There’s no dedication. But that’s good, I wouldn’t want this to belong to anyone,” I confirm.
“What’s it about?” His brows furrow, once again taking the book and gently flipping the pages.
“A psychiatrist, his marriage and how it falls apart along with his life,” I explain since he looks genuinely interested.
“Uplifting.” His lips curl into a half smile, as if he’s enjoying our conversation but he isn’t sure this plot would grab his attention.
“It’s not uplifting,” I say honestly and continue explaining with excitement, relishing the conversation. It’s been a long time since I last discussed this book.
“I love it because of the way the author makes me feel every emotion. Fitzgerald’s passion for writing is admirable, he takes my heart from the first chapter and does as he pleases with it until the end. But in this book, every word is filled with his own soul, I swear.”
Finally, lifting my gaze and looking back at him, I realize how closely he watches me. I squirm under his gaze, that travels from my face farther down.
“Is that your favorite book?” he inquires.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Not my favorite of all time.”
“Which one is your favorite?” he questions.
We have a code red. Man flirting with me at a bookstore. This is not a dream, I repeat, this is not a dream.
Abort!
Leave now!
Glancing at my stuff, I wonder if it would be best to pack up and leave. Then, I remember this is a great time to interact with a stranger. A so-good-looking-I-want-to-kiss-him, stranger. I walk around the bookstore and stop right in front of the children’s section and pull out The Little Prince.
“This would be my most favorite, followed by Charlotte’s Web, and then the Harry Potter Series. It’s hard to choose just one though.”
“I take it you like books.”
“Love them,” I correct him as I open the book and see a dedication. “Taylor, may your imagination grow along with you.”
“I bet this is from … his dad,” I guess.
“Dad?” The man in front of me frowns.
“There’s no signature after the writing.” I show him. “My guess is the dad wrote it and forgot to sign it. He gave it to his son when he turned seven or eight. His mom just gave it away because dear Trey went to college—or he just got married. Maybe they’re downsizing the family home.”
“You got all that from just the scribbles?”
“There’s an entire history behind everything,” I say, reading the first pages, remembering the first time I read this book.
“Emily,” Kara calls me. “I’m back.”
The guy with dark complexion, gorgeous eyes, and square jaw frowns at me. As if he’s slightly bummed that I wasn’t somebody else. You’re not the only one who’d want me to be different, buddy. Get in line, my parents would be thrilled to give you the spark notes.
“Emily,” he repeats, studying me.
The air thickens with tension. He stares at me with intense curiosity.
Any other woman might be fascinated by the attention he’s giving me, but to me, it’s unnerving. I’m not used to having someone looking at me so closely, let alone such a handsome man. This time the sweep seems a little seductive, not just concerned. He gives me a crooked smile.
“You don’t look like an Emily.”
“It’s actually Emmeline,” I correct him. “She called me Emily for an entire conversation, and I didn’t have the heart to correct her. I answer to several names. One more doesn’t affect me.”
“What other names do you use?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I ask using a flirty tone I don’t recognize.
It’s been a long time since I’ve even tried to make a friend, let alone try to engage in … more, like flirting with a man this gorgeous. But who wouldn’t want to discover how Mr. Too-Hot-For-This-World kisses?
“I do,” he says, checking his watch. “I have to go, but can we get coffee another time?”
“Coffee?” I swallow hard, surprised by the invitation.
Swipe left, swipe left. This is not a drill. Also, this is no Tinder, Em.
Fuck, I forgot that in real life there’s no swiping. You say yes or no—in person. Looking at the hot specimen closely, I conclude that I want to say yes. When was the last time I got laid?
“Jack,” he says, extending his hand.
I meet his hand.
Suddenly, I feel dizzy, and I clearly hear the cracking sound of electricity surrounding us.
The pit of my stomach tightens. Yep, he’s tall, dark, and dangerous to my health.
I don’t handle attraction very well. Or at all.
I tend to run away when I come face to face with what could become a real relationship.
Em, find your courage.
“What should I call you? Emmeline?”
“Em,” I offer.
He pulls out his phone, taps it, and hands it to me. “Em, could I have your phone number?”
No, I’m not ready for a date. When will I be ready for that? Try never.
“Of course,” I say, and I type my personal number into his phone.
“It’s nice meeting you, Em.”
You haven’t dated in years. What are you gonna do? I have two options, call my carrier and change my number or go out on … is this even a date?
“Jack, is this a date?”
He looks at me and chuckles.
“See you next weekend, Em.” He winks at me and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Yes, officially our first date.”
Em: I met someone.
Laura: Alastair says he’s happy for you, but we’re on a date.
Laura: That was him, not me. Call me.
Em: I won’t call you. Just know I might go on a date next week—with a real man. Love you guys.