Book Lovers(36)

“You know . . .” I grab the book and hold it in front of my chest. “I found this on the bestsellers shelf.”

“I know. It’s shelved right next to the Guide to North Carolina’s Bike Trails my old dentist self-published last year,” he says. “Did you want one of those too?”

“This book has sold more than one million copies,” I tell him.

“I’m aware.” He picks up the book. “But now I’m wondering how many of those you bought.”

I scowl. He rewards me with an almost grin, and for the first time, I know exactly what my boss means when she describes my “smile with knives.”

I look away from his face, which really just means my eyes skate down his golden throat and over his pristine white T-shirt to his arms. They’re good arms. Not in a ripped way, just an attractively lean way.

Okay, they’re just arms. Chill, Nora. Straight men have it too easy. A heterosexual woman can see a very normal-looking, nonsexual appendage, and biology’s like, Step aside, last four thousand years of evolution, it’s time to contribute to the continuation of the human race.

He brushes his laptop aside and starts rearranging the pens, pamphlets, and other office supplies on the desk. Maybe I’m not horny for him so much as his clothes and his organizational skills. “I was actually just emailing you.”

I jolt back to the conversation, vibrating like a snapped rubber band. “Oh?”

He nods, his jaw set, his eyes dark and intense. “Have you heard from Sharon yet?”

“Dusty’s editor?”

He nods. “She’s out on leave—had her baby.”

And just like that, all the lean arms, nice fingers, and perfectly organized jars of pens and highlighters in the world aren’t enough to hold my attention.

“But she’s not due for another month,” I say, panicked. “We have another month to get Dusty edits.”

Another small tick. “Would you like me to call her and tell her that? Maybe something can be done—wait, do you have any connections at Mount Sinai Hospital?”

“Are you done?” I ask. “Or is there a second punch line to this hilarious joke?”

Charlie’s hands brace against the counter and he leans forward, voice going raspy, eyes crackling with that strange internal lightning. “I want it.”

I feel like I missed a step. “Wh-what?”

“Dusty’s book. Frigid. I want to work on it.”

Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure where that was going. And also: no way in hell.

“If we want to keep the release date,” Charlie goes on, “Sharon won’t be back in time to edit. Loggia needs someone to step in, and I’ve asked to do it.”

My mind feels less like it’s spinning than like it’s spinning fifteen plates that are on fire. “This is Dusty we’re talking about. Shy, gentle Dusty, who’s used to Sharon’s soothing, optimistic demeanor. And you, who—no offense—are about as delicate as an antique pickax.”

His jaw muscles flex. “I know I don’t have the best bedside manner. But I’m good at my job. I can do this. And you can get Dusty on board. The publisher doesn’t want to bump back the release date. We need to push this thing through, no delays.”

“It’s not my decision.”

“Dusty will listen to you,” Charlie says. “You could sell snake oil to a snake oil salesman.”

“I’m not sure that’s how the saying goes.”

“I had to revise it to accurately reflect how good you are at your job.”

My cheeks are on fire, less from the compliment than from a sudden vivid memory of Charlie’s mouth. The part where he staggered back from me like I’d shot him quickly follows.

I swallow. “I’ll talk to her. That’s all I can do.” By habit, I’ve unthinkingly flipped to the last page of Once. Now I thumb to the acknowledgments, letting my muscles relax at the sight of my name. It’s proof—that I am good at my job, that even if I can’t control everything, there’s a lot I can strong-arm into shape.

I clear my throat. “What are you doing here anyway, and how long do you have until the sunlight makes you burst into flames?”

Charlie folds his forearms on the counter. “Can you keep a secret, Stephens?”

“Ask me who shot JFK,” I say, adopting his own deadpan tone.

His eyes narrow. “Far more interested in how you got that information.”

“That one Stephen King book,” I reply. “Now, who are we keeping secrets from?”

He considers, teeth running over his full bottom lip. It’s borderline lewd, but no worse than what’s happening in my body right now.

“Loggia Publishing,” he replies.

“Okay.” I consider. “I can keep a secret from Loggia, if you make it juicy.”

He leans in closer. I follow suit. His whisper is so quiet I almost have to press my ear to his mouth to hear it: “I work here.”

“You . . . work . . . here?” I straighten up, blinking clear of the haze of his warm scent.

“I work here,” he repeats, turning his laptop to reveal a PDF of a manuscript, “while I’m technically working there.”

“Is that legal?” I ask. Two full-time jobs happening simultaneously seems like it might actually add up to two part-time jobs.