The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(2)

Rule number one: Don’t stop.

Rule number two: Don’t argue with your protection agent.

“I’m in disguise,” I mutter back.

Clearly, I’m a rule-follower.

Her flat expression doesn’t change. “You walk like you. First row of books. Squat. Now.”

The bells have barely finished jingling over the red wooden door, reminding me of dashing into the record store close to home every allowance day when I was growing up, before Giselle has me tucked out of sight. She still has her sunglasses on and could be looking at the endcap, but I know she’s studying the street outside the store window while I’m left staring at a row of books about pregnancy and raising tantrum-free toddlers.

The scents of paper and ink tickle my nose, stirring other memories of mandatory library time in the summers before we were old enough to be left on our own.

Yeah, I’m lost. But I don’t regret it. Not when ten seconds in this place has me on a trip down memory lane and not thinking about how many years ago that was.

Sometimes getting lost is the best thing a guy can do.

For the first time in weeks, I inhale deeply and let my senses take over, cataloguing everything about the feeling. The cozy temperature inside the building. The soft light, bright enough to illuminate the bookshelves, not so bright that I have to squint. The exposed bricks between the shelves on the side wall, and the low beam ceiling that reminds me we’re near the warehouse district. A mix of incense or a candle mingles with the library smell, along with something else.

Coffee? Or is it tea?

I rub my thumb over the rough light wood of the nearest shelf. There are voices drifting somewhere else in the store, but no one’s come to greet us.

Perfect.

I settle on the floor, head bent, knees up, close my eyes, and listen.

There’s a song in here.

I can feel it.

This isn’t lost. This is what I didn’t know I was looking for.

Inspiration.

“Only you could find a song in a bookstore,” Giselle murmurs.

“Told you I knew where I was going.”

“I’m calling for the car.”

“Shh. Five minutes.”

She grunts. “Do. Not. Move. Especially if you hear the door open. Afternoon bachelorette party, by the looks of it. Don’t you dare so much as hum out loud either. The vultures can hear you six blocks away when you do that. I’m checking out the storytime crowd. I’ll be back in twenty seconds.”

Storytime. Good song title. I like it.

Not sure it’s on brand for a pop god known for dance tunes and love ballads, but I can work with this.

Even if it’s not on brand for me, it’ll be on brand for someone. A written song is never wasted, even if it never goes anywhere beyond scribbled on a piece of paper.

I pull out my phone and open my notes app. I should find the bathroom. It’s probably a single-seater, which means I can lock myself in and hum all I want without making a scene.

Instead, I’m typing out notes about the sound in my head.

Not ideal, but I’ve worked with worse.

My thumbs are flying, my head nodding to the beat bouncing between my ears, when my entire body is jarred sideways.

My phone flies out of my hand.

A voice shrieks.

Something heavy thumps to the wide-plank pine floor. Several somethings.

I’m shoved to my side, and something heavy and human-ish lands sprawled across me from hip to shoulder.

“Oh my god,” a woman gasps.

She twists, flailing like a fish out of water.

I take an elbow to the chin and grunt again.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she stutters.

I’m trying to crawl out from under her. She’s trying to squirm off me.

My ass connects with something hard, and three books topple over onto us.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” I gasp.

“No, no, my bad.” She twists again, then eeps.

I know that eep.

Explains why I’m now sprawled on the ground by myself with a bunch of books scattered around me, the person previously lying on top of me gone.

My bodyguard has arrived.

“Apologies, ma’am.” Giselle sets the woman on her feet, grabs me by the arm and hauls me up too, then pushes me back to a squat. “He’s a danger to society. You okay?”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Didn’t realize anyone had come in. Good audiobook. I—oh, crap. My earbud.”

She spins, and when she turns back around, smiles, and squats to grab her missing wireless earbud, my heart screeches to a halt.

My mouth goes dry.

My knees wobble.

She has thick, shoulder-length, honey-brown hair with a widow’s peak over a round face, cheeks like a cherub, lips a soft spring rose, and golden-brown eyes that flicker with shades of green. Her dark gray T-shirt clings to full breasts with a design that my brain is too jumbled to read, and when her gaze connects with mine, there’s a current in the air that makes me lose my balance and drop back against the shelf, sending two more books tumbling to the ground.

It’s her.

Her eyes widen and her lips pucker in a perfect o. She lifts her hands and starts to make some kind of motion, then clasps her fingers together instead.

Giselle’s saying something. Probably apologizing for me again as more books topple off the shelf, or telling me we need to go, as I process exactly how irrational I’m being.