Chapter 4 #2
I pause my machine and turn his way just in time to see him glance quickly back up at my eyes.
The classic move of someone who doesn’t want to get caught looking where he shouldn’t be.
Oh, but I caught those darkened eyes circling my legs, my stomach, my shoulders.
The various expanses of bare skin starting to glisten with sweat.
“Now who’s staring?” I say, quirking a brow. My tone is flirty, but his face falls immediately.
“Shit,” he says, rattling his head. “I don’t know what came over me—I’m sorry.”
I know what came over him. I look amazing in these shorts. “It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not.” He rises from the bench and wipes it down quickly. “I crossed professional boundaries. It won’t happen again.”
The air is thick with tension, and my instinct is to say something to dispel it, convince him it’s fine, I was only kidding. Because I was only kidding. I’m used to people checking me out and I honestly don’t care if he does (especially not when I was checking him out too).
In fact, to put it more accurately, I kind of like it. A lot. Not that I’d tell him that.
At least now I know he’s not a robot. Beyond the indecency of that T-shirt clinging to his torso, it’s gratifying—in a way I don’t care to give too much thought to—that, for a few seconds there, he wasn’t the rigid, aloof Ryan Grant.
He was decidedly…not aloof. Not with that heat flaring in his eyes, something wild overcoming the impassivity in them for just a moment.
He’s snapped back to factory settings, though, his movements speedy as he bids me goodbye and passes me on the way to the exit, gone before I can think of what to say.
But not before I get a waft of his scent—warm skin and freshly washed clothes, with an overlay of sweat that, ridiculously, prompts a clench in my nether regions.
The room seems awfully quiet after he vacates it, the tension lingering and sending restless energy through me.
Just forget it. Easier said than done. I blast my M.I.A.
playlist and level up my workout, adding sprint intervals to my run, followed by high knees, jump squats, and the most punishing burpees I can manage, forcing the release of endorphins, trying and not quite succeeding to banish the insistent hum deep inside my body. Now who’s working something out?
I rush back to my room, beelining for one of my suitcases.
Garments go flying as I dig through it, until finally I pull out the small pouch I packed with various electronic accoutrements—an extra power bank, a multi-pronged charger, noise-canceling headphones—and find what I’m looking for: a small travel vibrator.
I don’t allow myself to think. I just strip off my drenched clothes and put it to use.
Despite having explored Chicago extensively during past visits for speaking events, I’ve never been to Elevate Books.
It’s near Lincoln Park, a scenic neighborhood with tree-lined streets boasting homes tucked behind wrought-iron fencing.
Its plethora of architectural styles showcases the city’s evolution over time—redbrick Victorians next to opulent French-style limestone behemoths next to old factories converted to modern loft-style condos.
The bookstore, tucked between an antiques gallery and an empty storefront on a major thoroughfare, looks like it’s lived here for a century. Its clientele does too.
Maral, Shanthi, and I greet Ryan when we enter the shop, and the first thing I notice is how obvious it is that they’re accommodating us at the last minute.
Whereas the Strand had displays of my book on breakout tables and endcaps, and huge posters with my face all over them throughout the store, Elevate doesn’t have a single copy of my book by the entrance.
It’s not like I expected a fully dedicated display or anything, but I know for a fact that Ryan spent a large chunk of the morning personally relocating shipments of books, placards, and swag from Prologue.
So I know he’s not to blame. The store could have put a stack of books on a table.
Maybe a poster at the entrance. You’d think a live event would be a draw, something they’d want to capitalize on to sell more books.
But it isn’t long before I realize what a colossal miscalculation that is at this store.
I try not to walk downwind of Ryan’s scent as he leads us to the clearing in the center of the shop where they’ve (he’s?) set up a podium, rows of chairs, and a table with my books arranged in a fanned display.
Passersby cast curious glances at the setup and at our group, which definitely stands out in this store of rumpled, tweed-jacketed, burlap tote–carrying patrons.
My favorite white Armani suit, with its clean lines and lapel-less jacket, screams outsider.
At least Shanthi is casual, in flared jeans and a Henley.
Maral’s sharp outfit and long, styled, mermaid-like hair aren’t helping us fade into the scenery, and Ryan could not command more attention if he stood on a table and banged two pots together.
He’s dressed in a crisp shirt and blue jacket over dark jeans, which, coupled with his commanding posture, definitely draws the eye.
Or does it just draw my eye?
I have purposely banished from my mind the events of this morning.
As someone with an overactive libido, there’s no telling what will set me off.
I can’t be held responsible for what gets me going, and an objectively attractive man in the throes of exertion, setting off powerful pheromones in all his sweaty glory, would be prime material for most anyone attracted to men.
Never mind that the oxygenated blood pounding through my own veins made me a prime target for horniness.
Him checking me out didn’t help. I did not imagine the thirst in his eyes.
Who’s to say he didn’t go back to his room and do the same thing?
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about Ryan doing anything of the sort. Definitely don’t picture it. No, I said don’t!
While many of the people seating themselves in the audience must be ticket holders who received our alert that the venue had changed, some seem to be wandering over from browsing book displays, curious to see what the shake-up in what is likely otherwise a quiet showroom is all about.
Some are toting books they’ve gathered for purchase—a quick peek at a couple of stacks reveals a dense volume on theology, a coffee-table book about illuminated manuscripts, a fat spine that just reads Lincoln.
Oh boy.
Ryan announces five minutes to start time into the mic, and Shanthi gets shots of the seats filling, which she’ll likely post in fast motion as a Reel.
I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, which Maral recognizes as a sign that I’m hyping myself up.
She’s been watching the room the same as I have—she knows what I’m thinking.
“Whatever’s sprinting on that hamster wheel up there, stop it,” she says, pointing to my head. “Most of the people here sought you out. They want to hear your reading, your answers to their questions, and get their books signed.”
I blow out a breath. “And the others?” I ask.
“They thought they were just shopping for books, but lucky for them, they get to have their minds blown and become superfans of a brand they’d never heard of but now realize they can’t live without.”
“I’m going to rock their worlds,” I say, confident.
“That’s the spirit.”
“By this evening, we’ll have a bunch of new followers.”
“Think of the backlist podcasts they’ll get to enjoy.”
“They haven’t even heard the Jameela Jamil interview.”
Maral finger-guns me. “That was a good one.”
“That was a great one.”
She nods. “I’m envious of these people. They’re in for a treat.”
I squeeze her triceps. She knows just what to say to send me back to my resting state of positivity.
Instead of a bookstore employee, Ryan steps back up to the mic to introduce the event. Try as I might to trust his professionalism, to believe that he’ll present the book enthusiastically, I can’t help the frisson of doubt that creeps in.
“Thanks to everyone for joining us this afternoon,” he begins. “We didn’t expect to be holding this event here today, but we’re grateful to Elevate for accommodating us, as well as to those of you who still found us when we changed venues at the last minute.”
Okay, so far, so good. Ticket holders seem pleased to have their amenability acknowledged.
“Many people know Ana Movilian from the viral video now dubbed You can do this, which has been viewed over a hundred and eighty million times. Or you may be one of the four million people who follow her on Instagram or TikTok, or one of the countless podcast listeners she’s amassed over the past few years.
I have the privilege of knowing her as the supremely talented author of this game-changing book.
” He holds up a copy, the glossed type of the title shining under the overhead lights.
“The message of So Proud of You began as a harkening to children of immigrants, like Ana herself, but its appeal is universal. For anybody raised in a household where expectations were high but encouragement was low. Where they may have been loved but were never told as much in words. Where the burden of hope from older generations was placed on the shoulders of singular descendants, yet the acknowledgment they deserved for reaching these impossible standards was always just out of reach. This book offers the inspiring message that so many of us could use but have never received, teaching us to be our own best champions.”
I realize I’m not breathing, and consciously inhale through my nose. Did Ryan Grant really just say all those wonderful things about my book? The book whose proposal he criticized, whose campaign he partially torpedoed?
The floor beneath my feet feels like it’s shifting. Have I had it all wrong? Does Ryan actually…respect what I do?