Page 18 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

He ignores me, which is becoming a pattern. Just walks through my bookstore like he owns the place, flipping on lights, checking the thermostat, running his fingers along the spines of books like he’s greeting old friends.

“You’re not allowed to work the register,” he says over his shoulder. “Or climb ladders. Or lift anything heavier than a paperback.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m fine.”

“You’re on stool duty.”

“I’m on what?”

He produces a stool from behind the counter, my stool, the one I use when my feet hurt from standing all day, and places it next to the register with the air of someone issuing a royal decree.

“Stool duty. You sit here. You answer questions. You point at things. I handle everything else.”

“You can’t just…”

“Sit, Fable.”

I sit.

I don’t know why I sit. I don’t know why I’m listening to him. He’s not my boss. He’s not my doctor. He’s a stranger who showed up at my hospital bed because I can’t write numbers correctly.

But I sit, and he smiles, a real one this time, not the restrained near-miss he usually allows himself, and something in my chest does a complicated flip that I’m going to pretend didn’t happen.

The first customer of the day is Mrs. Patterson, because of course it is.

She takes one look at Orion, standing behind my counter like he belongs there, shelving romance novels with mechanical precision, and her eyes go wide with a delight that makes me immediately nervous.

“Oh, my,” she says, clutching her purse. “And who is this?”

“He’s nobody,” I say, from my stool. “He’s just…”

“Orion Halloran.” He extends a hand, smooth and polite. “I’m helping out while Fable recovers.”

“Recovers from what?”

“Car accident,” I say quickly. “Mild concussion. I’m fine.”

“She’s not fine,” Orion corrects. “She’s on stool duty.”

Mrs. Patterson looks between us with an expression I recognize from every matchmaking grandmother in every romance novel I’ve ever sold. It’s the look that says I’m about to meddle aggressively in your love life.

“How wonderful that you have someone to take care of you, dear.”

“He’s not taking care of me. He’s…”

“She needs a book,” Orion interrupts, turning to Mrs. Patterson with that patient attention he seems to have in endless supply. “What are you looking for?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mrs. Patterson flutters her hand vaguely. “Something with… passion. And a happy ending. And maybe a duke?”

“Have you read The Duke’s Inconvenient Bride?”

I choke on nothing.

Mrs. Patterson blinks. “I don’t think so?”

“Historical romance. Strong heroine. Excellent emotional pacing.” He says it with a completely straight face, like recommending steamy romance novels to elderly women is something he does every day. “Third shelf from the left, second row down. The one with the shirtless man on the cover.”

“They all have shirtless men on the covers, dear.”