3. Connor
CONNOR
It’s crazy how quickly life can change.
One day I’m going through my usual routine of early workouts, black coffee, client calls, and quiet evenings that don’t ask much of me.
The next, Emi is in my life, and everything feels so fucking different.
The air in my lungs. The weight of time.
The shape of the years ahead, even though I’ve only known her for less than forty-eight hours.
From my corner near the front window, I watch her ring up a woman with a little girl pressed shyly against her side. Emi crouches to the kid’s level when she hands over the paper bag, and whatever she says makes the little girl smile and tuck the book against her chest with both arms.
I have no doubt she’ll be a good mother someday.
Jesus. I need to get a grip. Watching a woman sell a kid a book should not have me thinking about babies, bedtime stories, and Emi’s body round with my child. But my mind keeps doing that around her, moving past reasonable and straight into forever.
I force my attention back to the street.
The bookstore window gives me a clear view of the opposite curb, the bakery, the parked cars, and most of the intersection.
A red sedan rolls by slower than the rest of traffic.
The windows reflect enough light to make the driver hard to see, and by the time I shift closer to the glass, the car has already continued out of sight.
Could be nothing. Could be a tourist looking for parking.
Could be a man with a grudge checking whether Emi is alone.
The mother and kid head for the door, and I open it for them without taking my eyes off the street for long. Then I go over to Emi instead of returning to my spot.
She’s sorting a stack of preorder slips, her hair pulled back in a clip that leaves loose pieces around her face. “You have that look again.”
“What kind of car does David drive?”
Her hands pause. “I don’t know. Why?”
“A red sedan came by slow. Could be nothing.” I keep my voice calm because I don’t want to worry her. “It was hard to see the driver.”
Emi’s gaze flicks toward the window, then back to me. “You think it was him?”
“I don’t know yet.” I stop myself from touching her, even though every protective instinct in me wants to pull her close and put my body between her and the world. “I’m on top of it.”
She studies me for a second, and I can see the argument forming. Then her expression eases. “I trust you.”
Before I move away, I notice a small stack of flyers beside the register. The top one says After-Hours Book Club, with tonight’s date written in Emi’s neat handwriting. “You host a book club tonight?”
“Once a month.” She smiles. “Why? Want to join?”
“Sure. I’m in.”
She laughs. “I was teasing.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You realize it’s a romance book club, right?” She points toward a display table near the middle of the store. “That’s the book. Blue cover, rainy window, shirtless man looking emotionally unavailable.”
I glance at the sign. I noticed it yesterday while browsing but didn’t read the details. Now I pick up a copy on my way back to the front, ignoring the way Emi watches me with her mouth slightly parted.
If she wants to know whether I’m serious about getting inside her world, here’s her answer.
By closing time, I’m on the final pages.
Emi flips the sign to Closed and starts turning on lamps near the front seating area while I finish the last scene.
It’s a solid book. More feelings than I usually read, but I understand why Emi likes it.
The hero is a stubborn bastard who tries to stay away from the woman because he thinks it will protect her, which means he spends half the book making everyone miserable, including himself.
I close the book and look at Emi. She’s carrying a folded chair from the back room, so I get up and take it from her before she can object.
“Connor.”
“I’m helping.”
“I can set up chairs.”
“I know.” I unfold the chair and place it in the loose circle she’s started near the display table. “I’m still helping.”
She gives me a look, but she’s smiling when she goes to grab napkins and a tray of cookies.
For the next few minutes, we work together without much discussion.
I set up chairs, move a small table, carry out drinks, and put the snack plates where she points.
The bookstore changes after hours, quieter and warmer with the street darkening outside and the lamps turning the shelves golden.
“You really read the whole thing?” she asks as she sets a bowl of pretzels beside the cookies.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The third-act breakup was bullshit.”
Emi laughs. “That is an extremely popular opinion.”
“He should’ve talked to her thirty pages earlier.”
“He was emotionally compromised.”
“He was an idiot.” I pick up the book and tap the cover. “But the rain scene was good.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “The kiss?”
“The kiss.” I remember the scene clearly. The heroine soaked through, the hero finally done pretending he could survive without her, both of them angry and aching and past the point of denial. “That was hot.”
Emi busies herself with straightening a stack of paper plates that are already straight. “It was a good scene.”
“Is that how you’d want to be kissed?”
Her cheeks go pink, and every part of me responds. For a second I think she’s about to say yes. Then the bell above the door rings, and three women come in laughing about something.
Emi turns away from me too quickly. “Book club,” she says under her breath.
I carry the look on her face with me for the next hour.
Book club is a different side of her. Emi leads without dominating, nudges people toward the topic when they wander too far, and makes sure everyone gets a chance to talk.
I sit near the edge of the circle with my chair angled toward the door, contributing only when Emi calls on me, which she does twice with an evil little smile.
The first time, I say the hero needed to stop making decisions for the heroine.
The second time, I say the rain kiss worked because they both wanted it and neither of them was hiding anymore.
Emi doesn’t look at me for a full minute after that.
When the group finally leaves, actual rain of our own has settled into a light patter against the window. I lock the door behind the last two women and start stacking chairs while Emi gathers cups and napkins. She doesn’t tell me to stop this time.
“Snacks don’t count as dinner, you know,” I say, carrying two chairs toward the back.
“They count as dinner if you eat enough cookies.”
“No.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Very stern food opinions.”
“You need real food. Come to dinner with me.”
“I’m eating at my dad’s tonight.” She puts away the last of the napkins, then looks at me with something gentler in her expression. “Sorry.”
“No apology necessary. Family’s important.”
“Yeah.” She leans against the counter. “It is.”
I want to ask about her dad, her family, every part of her life she hasn’t shared with me yet. I also want to keep her here until the rain turns heavier and I can finally find out what her mouth tastes like. Instead, I finish putting the room back together and watch her lock the register.
“Tomorrow is my day off,” she says as she gathers her bag. “The bookstore is closed, so your post is temporarily unavailable.”
“Have breakfast with me.”
Her hand pauses on the strap of her purse. She looks at me for a long beat, and I can see her thinking, weighing me, and weighing whatever this is becoming.
The rain taps softly against the glass. Emi’s smile comes slowly, cautious but real. “Okay. I’d like that.”
Outside, the air is cool and wet, the sidewalk shining under the streetlights. I walk her to her car with my hand hovering near the small of her back, close enough to guide her around a puddle, careful not to touch her unless she wants me to. She unlocks the driver’s door, then turns to face me.
Rain dots her hair and clings to her lashes. She tilts her face up, and my body goes tight with the effort of staying still. Fuck, I could kiss her now. Everything in me wants to pull those luscious curves into me and take the mouth I’ve been thinking about since yesterday morning.
“Goodnight, Connor,” she says gently.
I’m smart enough to read between the lines.
“Goodnight, Emi.”
I stand in the rain and watch her drive away, wanting her more than I thought it was possible to want anyone. Whatever this is, it’s not slowing down.