Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Hilary
It’s been a week.
Seven full days.
Not that I’m counting.
Hammonton, apparently, has not recovered.
Because when an internationally famous DJ shows up at a baby shower and then buys a literal mansion on the edge of town?
The rumor mill does not simply spin.
It combusts.
“Is he staying?”
“Are he and Nate working on something?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Does he smell as good as he looks?”
Okay, that last one was Bella.
And yes.
He does.
I stood close enough to him twice to get a good lungful of his scent—a mixture of some spicy cologne, soap, and just him.
But that’s irrelevant.
Completely irrelevant.
Because I’m not thinking about David Mars.
I am not replaying the almost-kiss at the sink.
And I sure as shit am not remembering the way his hand felt at my waist or the way he looked at me like I was something rare.
Nope.
Not doing that.
I’m working. Shelving new arrivals in Romance. Making small talk with my regulars.
All safe things.
Predictable.
Structured.
Unlike globally famous DJs who almost kiss you and then back off like you’re made of glass, or like he just realized you weren’t worth the second glance after all.
Whatever.
I mean, I wasn’t going to marry him.
I’m not marriage material.
Even Eric found me too small-town to marry—and that man sells insurance.
Insurance.
And yet, he still decided I was too rooted.
His words, not mine.
“You’re great, Hil,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was about to deliver a medical diagnosis. “But I need someone who wants more.”
More than what?
A stable business? A community? A bookstore full of stories?
Apparently yes.
So if an insurance salesman thinks I’m too small-town, what the hell would a world-famous DJ think?
Exactly.
Which is why I am absolutely, totally fine.
Mostly.
I tuck a new cowboy romance into the display and step back to admire my work.
Dry Creek Cowboys, huh? Not too shabby.
I tuck the title away to be put on my Tbr list.
And life continues.
The little bell above the shop door jingles.
“Welcome to The Book Shop!” I call automatically.
Then I hear them.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Measured.
And for a split second—just one stupid, hopeful second—my heart does that thing.
But it’s probably Mrs. Delaney looking for that new thriller I just restocked.
Or it could be a teenager hunting manga.
I turn around, and I freeze.
“Well,” a familiar voice says. “This feels dangerous.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Because there he is.
David freaking Mars.
Standing in the doorway of my bookstore like he absolutely belongs nowhere near it—and yet somehow makes the whole place feel different just by being inside.
Dark jeans. Fitted T-shirt. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Tattoos visible.
He looks less polished than he did at the shower.
And it totally works for him.
Which is frankly unfair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Smooth, Hilary. Very smooth.
He shuts the door behind him.
“Thought I’d see the place you built.”
My pulse jumps.
“That’s it?”
He scans the shelves slowly.
“I also need a break from staring at my phone.”
That sounds heavier than it should.
“Oh.” I cross my arms, defensive mode engaged. “Work crisis?”
“Opportunity,” he says. “Which is kind of the problem.”
I frown, curious despite myself.
“What kind of opportunity?”
He walks deeper into the store, trailing his fingers along the spine of a hardcover like he’s cataloging the place.
“Major League Rugby Championship wants me to produce this year’s theme.”
I blink.
“Like the Championship cup?”
“Yeah.”
“You a fan of rugby or something?”
“Yeah, actually. I have a friend who’s married to the head coach for the Carolina Rovers. I’ve been following them the last year,” I reply with a shrug.
And no, I am not going to mention how that spiraled into me hosting a sports romance weekend at the store last year—which reminds me to schedule another one and soon.
“So, wow, that’s huge. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. It is pretty big.”
I expect to see him gloating, but the truth is he doesn’t look thrilled.
He looks conflicted.
And that’s odd.
“So, what’s the issue?” I ask carefully.
He glances at me.
Then around the shop.
“At some point, I have to decide where I’m going. What I’m doing. In my career. My life. I gotta settle whether this”—he gestures vaguely at the world beyond the windows—“is temporary.”
The words land.
Harder than I expect.
“Oh,” I say again, quieter this time.
Temporary.
Right.
Of course, it is.
This is a vacation for him.
A detour.
He has better, bigger things to go on to.
I can’t relate.
I’m very much a part of this town.
Just a small-town girl.
Too rooted, remember?
I busy myself straightening a stack of books that are already straight.
“Well,” I say lightly, “whatever you decide, I mean it, congratulations. That’s amazing.”
He watches me.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m very convinced,” I reply. “National exposure? Stadium crowds? That’s gotta be exciting in your world.”
“And what do you think my world is?”
I meet his eyes.
Bright. Searching.
“I imagine it’s big, and fast, and loud,” I say honestly.
Something flickers across his face.
“And what’s yours?”
I gesture around us.
“Mine? Smaller by comparison. Much smaller. But it’s got some really great stories.”
Silence stretches.
Charged.
That tingle I’ve been trying to ignore? It sparks back to life.
I swallow.
“Anyway, what do I know? This is a bookstore,” I add quickly. “Not a career counseling center.”
A slow smile curves his mouth.
“I know.”
He steps closer to the counter.
Close enough that the air shifts again.
“Still,” he says quietly. “You’re the first person who didn’t just tell me to take the gig.”
My heart stutters.
“I didn’t tell you not to take it.”
“You didn’t tell me to.”
And that feels important.
For a second, I see it again—that same hesitation from the kitchen.
The same almost.
I take a breath.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that if something makes you feel like you’re being drained instead of filled up, maybe you’re allowed to question it.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
I shrug, but my voice softens.
“I think you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”
The bell over the door jingles again—mercifully, annoyingly—and an elderly couple wanders in.
David steps back.
Space returns.
Reality reasserts itself.
“Guess I picked a bad time,” he murmurs.
“No,” I say automatically.
And I immediately regret how fast that came out.
He catches it.
Of course he does.
He smiles—a wicked grin that just about melts my panties right off my body.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” he says.
But he doesn’t move.
And neither do I.
Because despite everything.
Despite Eric.
Despite the rumor mill.
Despite logic.
The magic Adrianna told me to believe in?
It’s still humming.
And I don’t know whether to shut it down.
Or see what happens next.