Page 103 of That Rush

“That woman has a system involving five shades of red.”

“Her organization impressed you.”

“Her explanation concerned me.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I turn to check the signing table. The author has water, fresh pens, and another stack ready beneath her elbow. Aiden noticed the first pen dying before I did and replaced it without interrupting her conversation. He has also moved chairs, directed readers to the register, and learned not to call a discreet cover “the version people hide from their husbands.”

I mentioned tonight’s event while we were texting about the book he borrowed. I never asked him to come. He arrived before the doors opened and said I looked like I needed someone tall.

“Can I help with anything else?” he asks.

“You can take those preorder forms to the front desk.”

He collects them and heads through the crowded bookstore. Women track him between shelves. Aiden either does not notice or has decided I am the safer person to look at, because his attention returns to me as soon as he reaches the desk.

I catch the small, private smile on my face and don’t try to hide it.

When he comes back, I hand him a roll of signing stickers. “Put one inside each book on that cart.”

“What do they say?”

“Romance readers do it better.”

His gaze settles on me. “Accurate.”

The drag of his fingers sends heat across my skin. He holds on just long enough for the touch to feel like a secret, a claim made in a room full of people.

Then a reader asks where the restroom is, and the moment dissolves.

Forty minutes later, the last customer leaves with a signed hardcover hugged to her chest. The author thanks us, and I collapse the check-in sign while Aiden packs the remaining paperbacks.

I lean against the empty table. “You liked this.”

“I liked watching you run it.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“The readers are intense.”

“They would say committed.”

“One tried to convince me groveling should last at least three chapters.”

“She was correct.”

“I suspected you would take her side.”

“You made fun of discreet covers. Your judgment is compromised.”

“And yet I stayed.”

I glance at him. “You did.”

Aiden sets the final stack into a box. “I wanted to.”

He keeps showing up in the quiet parts of my life, asking what needs to be carried and learning why a different cover matters. He treats the things I enjoy as if they have their own value, separate from me. The thought settles, warm and unfamiliar. I fold the tablecloth, dropping it into a storage bin. “Thank you for staying.”

“I wanted to.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Come to dinner at my parents’ house Saturday.”