The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(13)
I miss my grandparents. “She used to bake oatmeal raisin cookies for the kids who came in every afternoon after school.”
“Poser cookies.” He shudders, and now I’m laughing.
“Oatmeal raisin cookies are delicious.”
“When you’re not expecting chocolate chip cookies.”
“I have her recipe, but not quite the time. Plus, the health department is pickier these days, and more kids are in after-school programs. I compromise and get cookies from my favorite bakery instead.”
“You’ve always worked here?”
“Off and on.” I pluck another book off the shelf. “How about the Llama Llama books? Hudson still adores these.”
“I know that one,” he confirms. “Pretty sure the dog ate their last copy.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“You have a dog?”
“Not right now.” I point to the ceiling. “It’s hard enough keeping my kids contained in our apartment.”
He glances up, then sets his gaze back on me, and there’s that sensation again.
The he’s into me sensation.
I know it’s the mystical, magical effect of being close enough to feel the outer edges of his space bubble. I felt the same thing when I was at one of his concerts years ago and I swore we locked eyes.
But for two seconds, I let myself indulge in the fantasy that a man with his life together could be interested in a busy, sometimes frazzled, always wishing for a glass of wine, woman like me.
“You?” I ask.
He blinks. “Me?”
“Do you have a dog? Or any pets?”
“No, but I do have the spare mascot costumes for the Fireballs at my place. Rumor has it someone might try to steal them again before next season. Shh. Top secret.” And now he’s winking at me.
Levi Wilson.
Winking. At me.
I pretend to zip my lips and throw away the key while wondering when I last shaved my bikini line. “Your secret is safe with me.”
He smiles again.
I smile and hope I don’t have lunch stuck in my teeth. What was today’s lunch? I can’t remember.
He steps closer, and I smell fresh cotton and spicy cologne and whatever unrealistic dreams must smell like. “Can I ask you a crazy question?”
I nod. If I do much more, he might move away, and it’s warm and exciting and happy in his bubble, like he’s sunshine itself inside an amusement park of only happy, non-scary rides that everyone from babies to great-grandparents can ride, and where too much cotton candy doesn’t make your stomach hurt and where funnel cake has zero calories.
His gaze drops and he rubs the back of his neck, then grins at me sheepishly. And just when I think he’s going to ask something groundbreaking, he says, “Do you ever rent out space in the off-hours?”
I don’t know Levi Wilson personally. I’ve seen him in concert a couple times, and I’ve spoken to him as a customer—or whatever this is—for exactly six minutes of my life.
But I know to the pit of my very soul that do you rent out space in the off-hours isn’t the question he wants to ask. “I—well, that would depend on what you’d need it for. Fire code is a thing, and the neighbors get prickly about noise after eight.”
His smile changes, and this one’s flat-out adorable on a man who’s usually sex on a stick. “No, not to make noise. And I meant privately.”
My brows shoot up and my face gets that hot tingle that means I’m blushing.
He’s looking up toward the loft that hangs over two-thirds of the store, running the entire length from the windows to the storeroom wall in back. “I like the vibe. Good for writing.”
“You write books?”
Gah, that flip in my belly when his bedroom eyes land on me…
“Songs.” He’s amused. I swear his personal bubble is getting warmer and friendlier, which is ridiculous since I’m not a bubble person.
“Oh! Right. Of course.” I wave a flustered hand at the shelves around us. “Clearly, my mind—”
“Mom! Mom! Skippy is sick!”
My left eye twitches as I look around Levi, breaking out of that warm glow he was pulling me into, to see Zoe charging up the store’s central aisle with a Nike shoebox in hand. “What?”
“Skippy!” She flings the lid open, and there, nestled amongst sticks and leaves, is a furry little rodent with glassy black eyes, its chest heaving.
I slam the box closed. “Zoe. Oh my god, what is that? Go. Back upstairs. Now. I’ll deal with you and—Skippy—in a minute.” I glance at Levi. “This isn’t normal. I mean, it is, but not usually with…” I flap my hand at the box.
“But he fell! And he wouldn’t get up. And he looks like Hudson did that time he had strep throat and threw up all of his tomato soup.”
One…two…three… “Zoe. Go have Aunt Portia call Uncle Griff.”
“Uncle Griff’s a firefighter, not a squirrel doctor,” my daughter sobs.
The bells jingle over the door, and I call out a short, “We’re closed.”
“I heard screaming,” Giselle replies.
“Wasn’t me.” Levi’s right at my back, close enough that I can feel that warm bubble of light he lives in, but in an I know it’s there way, not in an I’ve been let inside again way. “Is that a chipmunk?”