Page 60 of The Fake Out

“I did not cry,” he said with pretend outrage.

“If you say so.”

He grunted and tugged me to a stop in front of Bookmarks, the small used bookstore that had been around for years.

“I thought we could look for our new book club selection.” The bell tinkled as Chris held the door open. “After you.”

I was hit by the comforting smell of musty, used books and something there wasn’t a word for—the pure, sweet essence that people who loved books the world over knew and loved.

“Maebell, I haven’t seen you in a while,” Miss Linda said from behind the long, cluttered book counter at the rear of the store. She was a round woman with a contagious laugh and a penchant for loud, gaudy reading glasses. Today they were orange sprinkled liberally with sparkly crystals. “Chris, it’s good to see you again.”

“First-name basis?” I asked.

Chris removed his sunglasses and hung them from the collar of his t-shirt. “I’ve been here a few times.”

“More than that,” Miss Linda said. “He’s keeping me in business all on his lonesome.”

Chris’s cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head in that charming, ah-shucks way he had. It was, of course, adorable. “I like to read, is all.”

Oh, brother. My brain must be slowly dying from lack of sleep. Adorable?

“I mainly come to hear Linda share stories of you when you worked here,” he said.

“All good, don’t you worry.” Miss Linda laughed. “Well, except for the incident when the police were called but we were all on your side, Mae. That man deserved to be slapped upside the head with On Golden Pond. He should have thanked his lucky stars you didn’t pull from the Russian literature section.”

“I’ll be sure to watch my manners when around the books,” Chris said solemnly, eyes twinkling.

“And don’t you forget it.” I elbowed him in the gut and, though he grunted, I knew it hurt my elbow more than it hurt him.

Chris put a hand on my lower back and guided me through the aisles until he came to a stop at the romance section. “Let’s pick a book.”

“Another romance?” I asked. “We could find something else. What about a biography or a nice horror?”

“Turns out I like a good romance.”

I cleared my throat and blindly pulled a book from the shelf in front of me. “Right. Well, here’s one.”

“The Farmer Picks a Wife: A Single Father Amish Romance?” Chris pressed his lips together and flipped the book over. “Josiah Smucker is a hardworking widower with six curious children. Sarah Olsen is a wisecracking, single English woman. Will the two defy the odds when Josiah decides it’s time to pick a new wife?” He shot me a pointed look.

“What’s wrong with a good Amish romance?” It sounded kind of terrible, not that I would admit it. “The Amish deserve love, too.”

With a sympathetic nod, he reshelved the book. “I know, but I’m not sure I want to read about it right now.”

“Fine. You pick.”

He rubbed his hands together. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

While Chris studied the shelf in front of us, I studied him. He wasn’t wearing his baseball cap today and dark hair curled at his back collar and around his ears—he really could use a haircut. His t-shirt had the washed-a-million-times look about it and I bet it was the perfect level of softness. It was currently doing an excellent job of stretching across his back, tapering at his waist and although it wasn’t particularly tight, it was easy to see his shoulders flex as he searched the shelves. My stomach dipped. Forget about firefighters. Hot guy plus books… where was that calendar?

Yes, I was pathetic.

“This one,” he said in triumph. “There’s even two copies.”

“Let me see.”

“Nope. It will be a surprise.”

“But…”