Page 34 of That Rush

He follows me into the nearest aisle, keeping Josie within sight. The shelves block us from the entrance and most of the reading area, wrapping the quiet around us, making the conversation dangerously private.

I hold the book against my chest. “You thought romance novels were sweet, didn’t you?”

“I assumed there would be more longing and fewer commands.”

“There’s plenty of longing. It simply pays off.”

His eyes lower to the paperback pressed against my breasts, and the muscle along his jaw tightens. “Do they all come with instructions?”

“Only the useful ones.”

“Do you highlight for research?”

I smile even though my face is still warm. “No. I remember what interests me.”

His control slips.

It’s a small shift—his fingers tightening on the edge of the shelf, the amusement in his eyes darkening to something else. He’s no longer reading about a fictional scene. His gaze travels over my body, and I know he’s not picturing the heroine anymore.

“That interested you?” he asks.

“I marked the page, didn’t I?”

His gaze returns to mine. “You think a man needs a book to figure that out?”

“I think fictional men tend to understand instructions better than real ones.”

“Maybe you’ve been giving them to the wrong men.”

“Or maybe real men overestimate themselves.”

A quiet laugh leaves him. “You have strong opinions for someone hiding her book under paperwork.”

“I was protecting you. Your innocent understanding of romance has been shattered.”

“I’ll recover.”

“Eventually.”

He steps closer without touching me. The aisle is narrow enough that his body fills the space—a solid wall of broad shoulders and deliberate restraint. He smells like clean soap and sun-warmed skin, and every fictional woman who made reckless decisions beside bookshelves starts making sense.

“You really believe that?” he asks.

“That you’ll recover?”

“That a real man couldn’t deliver.”

The words are low and controlled, and my pulse jumps with no respect for the fact that we’re surrounded by children’s books.

“I believe evidence matters.”

“And what would qualify as evidence?”

“A successful demonstration.”

His grip tightens on the shelf. Retreating would let me keep possession of the conversation. I lift my chin.

“Consent would be important,” I add, “fictional standards have improved.”