Maybe Later(20)

Look at me, hot stranger, I’m the whole definition of poise and unmoved. Just don’t expect me to talk coherently because my mouth went dry.

Oh my God, are you real? Can I touch you? Is it legal to walk around with that handsome face and breathtaking grin?

I want to comb my fingers through his dark, messy hair. My breath catches as I stare at his intense dark brown eyes, almost as dark as my own. Fine features with sculpted cheekbones and that jaw. My hand itches to touch his rough jaw, dusted with a five o’clock shadow or better yet, run my lips over his tanned skin.

There’s something special about him that makes my head spin.

Hot-Guy’s gaze makes a sweep of my body, from head to toe and back. Do I have something in my teeth? Did I brush my hair before I left? I reach for a loose strand and try to remember if I even combed my hair today.

Yes, I did and even took my time to braid it, and I’m glad I reached for my lip gloss before leaving the ramen restaurant. Fuck, I forgot to put in my contacts. I look like a librarian. Hmm, we could pretend I’m punishing him for not bringing his books back on time. Or he can spank me for reading naughty books during working hours.

Snap out of it!

“You seem fine,” he says, meeting my gaze. “More than fine.”

“Fitzgerald?” he asks as he bends down to pick up the book I dropped and examines it.

“Not the Great Gatsby?”

I take a long breath and pull myself together, feeling about as articulate as a table.

You’re better than this. You make men shake in fear, not the other way around. You have one of the most feared CEOs behaving like a decent human after a few weeks of working with him.

I shake my head, taking back my book. “Have you read it?”

“Would you think less of me if I confess that I’ve only read the popular one?”

“You read it in high school,” I guess.

He nods. “Are you a teacher?”

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “Nope, it’s just an educated guess. I’m not judging you for not reading any of his other books. The school system makes us hate the classics, and once we have the freedom to read, we pick up everything but old authors—or stop reading.”

“Is this as good as the Gatsby?”

The Gatsby? He says it in such a way that I almost laugh but control myself.

“I’d say better, but that’s my humble opinion. Tender is The Night, is my favorite from Fitzgerald because it’s one of the most heartbreaking books. You should read it.”

He takes it back from me, his fingers grazing mine. His touch sends my pulse into overdrive, and I feel like the air is charged with electricity. I’m too aware of his presence, and the heat we create when our skin touches.

Shake it off, girl, he’s just a man.

I compose myself and check the first pages. “There’s no dedication. But that’s good, I wouldn’t want this to belong to anyone,” I confirm.

“What’s it about?” His brows furrow, once again taking the book and gently flipping the pages.

“A psychiatrist, his marriage and how it falls apart along with his life,” I explain since he looks genuinely interested.

“Uplifting.” His lips curl into a half smile, as if he’s enjoying our conversation but he isn’t sure this plot would grab his attention.

“It’s not uplifting,” I say honestly and continue explaining with excitement, relishing the conversation. It’s been a long time since I last discussed this book.

“I love it because of the way the author makes me feel every emotion. Fitzgerald’s passion for writing is admirable, he takes my heart from the first chapter and does as he pleases with it until the end. But in this book, every word is filled with his own soul, I swear.”

Finally, lifting my gaze and looking back at him, I realize how closely he watches me. I squirm under his gaze, that travels from my face farther down.

“Is that your favorite book?” he inquires.

I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Not my favorite of all time.”

“Which one is your favorite?” he questions.

We have a code red. Man flirting with me at a bookstore. This is not a dream, I repeat, this is not a dream.

Abort!

Leave now!

Glancing at my stuff, I wonder if it would be best to pack up and leave. Then, I remember this is a great time to interact with a stranger. A so-good-looking-I-want-to-kiss-him, stranger. I walk around the bookstore and stop right in front of the children’s section and pull out The Little Prince.

“This would be my most favorite, followed by Charlotte’s Web, and then the Harry Potter Series. It’s hard to choose just one though.”

“I take it you like books.”

“Love them,” I correct him as I open the book and see a dedication. “Taylor, may your imagination grow along with you.”

“I bet this is from … his dad,” I guess.

“Dad?” The man in front of me frowns.

“There’s no signature after the writing.” I show him. “My guess is the dad wrote it and forgot to sign it. He gave it to his son when he turned seven or eight. His mom just gave it away because dear Trey went to college—or he just got married. Maybe they’re downsizing the family home.”