2. Emi
EMI
He asks me to dinner, and I forget how to answer a basic question.
Which is inconvenient, because I’m usually excellent at basic questions.
Where’s the bathroom? Do you have the new thriller with the red cover?
Can you order a book if I only remember that the author’s name maybe starts with an S?
But this man standing in the middle of my bookstore has made my brain stop working.
I should say no. I met him this morning after he caught me scrubbing an insult off my window, which is not the ideal foundation for romance.
He’s also large enough to block a doorway without trying, intense enough to make silence feel loaded, and stubborn in a way that should annoy me more than it does.
But he stayed all day.
He didn’t crowd me. He didn’t treat me as incompetent. He bought books, watched the door, carried a box of overstock without asking, and made the store feel entirely secure just by being in it. I told myself I didn’t need that. I still believe I don’t, technically.
Want, unfortunately, has a very different opinion.
Connor waits for my answer, his eyes steady on mine.
He has the kind of face made for hard decisions, full of strong lines, dark stubble, and a mouth that doesn’t smile without meaning it.
I don’t want to be attracted to him. I don’t want to deal with any men for a while.
The last man who decided he deserved access to me wrote a slur on my window when I refused to give it.
But Connor isn’t him.
“We can grab a bite to eat at the place around the corner,” I say, hearing the caution in my own voice. “It’s casual.”
His expression shifts, not quite a smile, but close enough to change the room. “Sounds perfect.”
I turn away before my face can reveal too much and start shutting down the store. “I need to lock the back, turn off the register, and grab my bag. Try not to buy anything else while unsupervised.”
He picks up one of the paperbacks from the front table and turns it over in his hand. “No promises.”
By the time I finish, Connor has moved to the front window.
He isn’t staring at the place where the paint was, exactly, but I can tell he’s aware of it.
His attention takes in the street, the parked cars, the reflected shelves behind him.
It should feel excessive. Instead, the tension I’ve been carrying since this morning continues to ease.
Outside, he waits while I lock the door, then falls into step beside me. The sidewalk is busier now, with dinner traffic starting. Connor walks on the street side without making a performance of it.
“So,” I say as we pass the darkened bakery windows. “Ex-military bodyguard with a sudden passion for independent bookstores. That’s a very specific character profile.”
“Private security,” he says, his gaze shifting briefly to a car idling at the curb. “Mostly personal protection. Some event work. Corporate travel. Threat assessment.”
“Threat assessment sounds intense.”
“It can be boring.”
“Somehow I don’t believe you’re bored very often.”
His mouth tugs at one corner. “I’m bored constantly. Shallow conversations. Loud rooms. People who talk to fill space.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to a woman who talks to customers for a living.”
Connor looks down at me, and I feel it in my ribs. “You don’t talk to fill space.”
That shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does.
We reach the restaurant before I can decide what to do with it, and I’m grateful for the noise when we step inside.
The place is warm and bright, with red vinyl booths, framed photos on the walls, and the familiar smell of grilled onions and coffee.
I choose a booth near the middle of the room.
The server drops off menus, and I order iced tea because wine feels too date-y. Connor asks for coffee, which makes me lower my menu.
“It’s evening,” I say.
He sets his menu down without opening it. “I know.”
“You drink coffee at night?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sleep?”
“When necessary.”
“That’s horrifying.”
His mouth curves, slow and brief. “You asked.”
“I’m starting to see that as my mistake.” I look back at my menu to give myself somewhere else to look, because his almost-smile does something unfairly handsome to his face.
When the server returns, I order a turkey club and fries. Connor gets a double burger, fries, onion rings, coleslaw, and a bowl of chili, then looks at me when I raise my eyebrows.
“Workout this morning,” he says.
“I saw the shirt. I inferred.”
His gaze holds mine for a beat too long, and warmth spreads through me, unwelcome and very much not subtle. I busy myself smoothing the paper napkin beside my silverware, even though it clearly does not need smoothing.
“So how does someone end up owning a bookstore?” he asks.
I’m relieved for the easy question. I tell him about working there in college, back when the old owner ran the place with reading glasses on a chain and an absolute refusal to stock anything she considered the slightest bit racy.
I tell him how I left for a few years, worked a job I was decent at but never loved, then came back when the owner decided to retire.
“It’s not always romantic,” I admit, dragging one fingertip through the condensation on my glass.
“People think it’s cozy afternoons and recommending novels to charming strangers.
There’s also inventory, invoices, dust, and pretending I understand social media.
But it’s mine. I wanted a life that felt mine. ”
Connor’s expression is serious, but not heavy. “You got it.”
“I’m working on keeping it.”
“You will.”
“You sound very sure for someone who saw my business for one day.”
“I saw enough,” he says, full of certainty.
Maybe that should bother me. But I spend so much of my life making decisions alone, carrying every problem from first panic to final solution, that having someone believe in you without hesitation feels like a long-needed hug.
Our food arrives, giving me something to do with my hands.
Connor eats with the straightforward focus of a man who treats food as fuel, but he also asks what I’m reading, what I loved as a kid, and which book I secretly hate that everyone else loves.
I expect him to glaze over eventually. He doesn’t.
He wants details. He asks follow-up questions, not the polite kind, the real kind.
In return, I get pieces of him. He joined the military at eighteen because he wanted structure and money for school, then stayed because he was good at the work.
He doesn’t talk about the hard parts in much detail, but the edges are there.
Long deployments. Friends he still checks on.
A body that wakes fully alert at the smallest sound.
After he left, personal security made sense because he already knew how to watch doors, read crowds, and stay calm when the pressure hits.
“Do you miss being in the military?” I ask.
“Some parts.”
“Which parts?”
He’s quiet long enough that I think he might not answer. Then he sets his coffee down. “The clarity. Knowing the job. Knowing who’s beside you. Knowing what matters when everything gets loud.”
“And now?”
“Now people pay me to stand near them while they pretend they aren’t scared.”
The answer is too honest for a casual dinner. I study him across the table, the ridiculously broad shoulders, the scar near one eyebrow, the controlled way he holds himself. He should feel intimidating. He does, in some ways. But there’s something tender under all that strength, too.
“Is that what you thought I was doing today?” I ask. “Pretending I wasn’t scared?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “Some of the time.”
I set down the fry I’ve been holding and look toward the window.
Outside, people pass with jackets tucked around them against the evening air.
Ordinary life, ordinary sidewalk, ordinary glass reflecting light back into the restaurant.
Nothing threatening. Nothing that should make my stomach tighten.
“I know who did it,” I say.
Connor goes still. He just stops moving, every bit of attention coming to rest on me.
“At least, I’m pretty sure.” I make myself look back at him. “There’s a man who comes into the store sometimes. David. He started out friendly, then got persistent. Asked me out more than once. I said no every time, politely at first, then less politely when polite didn’t work.”
Connor’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t interrupt. The restraint is obvious. So is the anger underneath it.
“The last time was two nights ago,” I continue, wrapping both hands around my iced tea.
“He came in right before closing and asked again. I told him as clearly as I could that I wasn’t interested, and he got embarrassed, then angry.
Said I thought I was too good for him. Said women my size should be grateful for attention.
” I hate repeating it. “I told him to leave. He did. Then this morning, the window.”
Connor’s hand closes around his coffee mug. “Did you tell the police his name?”
“No.”
“Emi.” My name comes out rough, not scolding, but close enough that my spine stiffens.
“I know how it sounds. But I didn’t see him do it. There are no cameras. It’s paint on a window. I didn’t want to sound hysterical.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, so firm and immediate that it cuts through the noise around us.
I stare at him, my throat tight. I’m not used to being believed that quickly. Connor doesn’t ask whether David was just awkward and misunderstood. He believes me, and that might be the most dangerous thing he’s done all day.
“I’ll update the report tomorrow,” I say softly. “With his name.”
“Good.” He leans back, but the tension in him doesn’t ease. “Are you okay with me spending a few more days at the bookstore?”
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“It’s my job.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“No, it isn’t.” His voice stays even, which makes the words harder to dismiss. “Someone who reacted badly to rejection escalated his actions to vandalism. He knows where you work. He may know your closing routine. A few days of visibility could make him rethink coming back.”
The worst part is that he’s right. I can argue tone, boundaries, and whether large men should be allowed to make declarations over half-eaten fries, but I can’t argue the logic.
I felt safer with Connor in the store today.
When the bell rang, I didn’t tense as sharply.
When men came in, I didn’t feel like I needed to track them every second.
“You can’t just spend days at my store for free,” I say. “You have actual clients. A life. Protein powder to drink.”
His mouth twitches. “Very funny.”
“If you’re working, I’m paying you.”
“I’m not charging you.”
“Then you’re not working.”
“I’ll be there anyway.”
“Connor,” I say, putting every ounce of warning I have into his name.
“Emi,” he answers, calm as anything.
We stare at each other across the table, and I realize I’m fighting a smile at the same time I’m fighting the urge to throw a fry at him.
This is absurd. This man walked into my life this morning because someone else tried to scare me, and now he’s sitting across from me making stubbornness look stupidly attractive.
“Are you always this stubborn?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I finally laugh, and his expression changes with such honest satisfaction that my chest goes warm. He likes making me laugh. I can see it. Worse, I like that he likes it.
“Fine,” I say, though I hold up one hand when his eyes sharpen. “A few days. And we’re going to discuss payment again, because I’m not letting you donate professional services because you’re bossy and broad-shouldered.”
“Bossy and broad-shouldered,” he repeats, sounding far too pleased.
“Don’t sound proud.”
“I’m proud of both.”
I shake my head, but the smile won’t leave my mouth. That might be the problem. Or the beginning of a much bigger one.
Connor lifts a hand to flag down the server and asks for boxes for our leftovers.
His voice is polite, his attention still partly on me and partly on the room, and I watch him with a strange tug low in my stomach.
He is too much in almost every category.
Too big, too certain, too watchful, too able to step into a problem and make himself necessary.
The server sets the boxes down, and Connor slides one toward me.
I look at his hand, then his face, and wonder if I’m already in over my head.