Riley POV

The bell over the door jingled behind me as I flipped the sign to OPEN, still nursing the world’s slowest death-by-hangover. My coffee was doing its best. So was the greasy egg sandwich I forced myself to eat at 6 a.m. But nothing really cures a tequila-and-questionable-decision combo like bitter espresso and pretending last night didn’t happen.

Or like hiding in your own anti-sports, pro-sarcasm sanctuary of a bookstore café.

Back where I belonged, surrounded by crooked stacks of paperbacks with cracked spines, and the hum of an ancient espresso machine. Back to customers and the comforting scent of old books and rain. Not sweat, bruised egos, victory, or broken teeth.

I was wiping down the corner table by the window, the one with the chipped tile and best natural light, when my phone buzzed with a FaceTime from Avery. I sighed and answered it anyway.

Her face appeared, way too chipper for someone who’d strong-armed me into a hockey arena 24 hours ago. “Hey, stranger.”

“I survived,” I said, “barely.”

“You kissed a stranger in a bar and survived that, too.”

I nearly dropped the rag. “We are not talking about that.”

“Oh, we absolutely are. You kissed someone with shoulders, Riley. That’s growth.”

“I was drunk. He was… persistent. And hot. And it was a one-time thing.”

She smirked. “Was he, though?”

I rolled my eyes and walked toward the espresso machine, flipping on the steam wand like it could drown her out. “Not happening again. He didn’t even give me a last name. Probably some athletic trainer or something. Seemed normal. Not a meathead.”

Avery froze. Blinked. Her mouth opened like she was going to say something, then closed again. “Trainer. Right. Totally.”

I squinted at her. “What?”

“Nothing!” she said way too fast. “Anyway, speaking of hockey-adjacent hotties, Liam says his buddy the goalie got out of a long-term thing. Super sweet guy. Local. Tall. Thought I’d mention it.”

“No thanks.”

“Oh, come on~”

“I mean it. I am not a sports girl. I kissed one dude with nice arms and a good face. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to start dating a puck-stopping man-child who thinks ‘Netflix and chill’ is a love language.”

“Okay, okay! Don’t bite my head off.” She made a motion like zipping her lips.

I sipped my coffee like it was the moral high ground. “I want a normal guy. Someone who reads, maybe. Or at least doesn’t bleed team colors. Is that too much to ask?”

“Normal,” she repeated, barely suppressing a laugh. “Right.”

“Exactly. No mystery jobs. No stadiums. No sweaty pads. Just someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to Google their job.”

“God, you’re such a snob,” she said, but she was smiling. “Fine. I’ll cancel the setup.”

“Wait, it was already set up?”

“I plead the fifth.”

I groaned and let my forehead thunk lightly against the cupboard door.

She winked. “Good luck with your ‘normal guy,’ babe. Hope he likes overpriced muffins and bitter sarcasm.”

“That’s the dream,” I said, ending the call.

I shoved my phone into the pocket of my apron, turned the music back on, something low-fi and judgmental, and tried to focus on shelving new arrivals.

Somewhere between alphabetizing King and Koontz, my thoughts drifted to last night again. To him.

The way he looked at me, cocky and curious, like I was the plot twist he didn’t see coming.His hands warm against my waist, that frustrating confidence like he knew something I didn’t.

God, what was I thinking? Kissing a stranger in a bar? I never do that. I’m the sarcastic one. The guarded one. The one who doesn’t give in to guys who smile like sin and talk like trouble.

It had to be the alcohol. That, or his face.

Maybe both.

I shook the thought off, dragging a crate of books toward the front counter.

One-time thing.

Definitely.

Probably.

Maybe…