My fingers lingered on the worn linen, tracing the faded edges as if the cloth could whisper back. Gold-leafed lettering caught the light like the last breath of a sunbeam—the title pressed softly into the fabric, half-sunken by time. I slid it between its kindred, an offering returned to the shelf. The outpouring of the human soul, distilled into verse. The ache and ecstasy of living, rendered lyrical.

"If you're looking for something more political, more inspiring, I'd suggest this one here." My fingertips danced along the spine before pulling it free. "Gabriela Mistral. First Latin American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Her work is—" I exhaled, reverent. "Beautiful. She spoke for the silenced, the overlooked. Her poetry carried their grief, their hope."

"What about something more, I dunno... rhymey? Like mantras that are empowering but also, like, fun," she said, twirling a lock of pale hair between her fingers, glossy and perfect.

"This is empowering." I pressed the book to my chest, brow knitting with something quieter than frustration. "But I get it."

She gave a shrug, her lips pursed. "It just looks... old. Not really what I'm going for, you know?"

I swallowed the sigh before it could rise. Reminder: this was a job. She was a customer. The smile on my face had to be real enough to sell a fantasy, not just a book. "Well, this is a used bookstore. Most of the covers have a little history." I softened my tone, reaching for another volume. "But I hear you. Something bubbly. Bright. Easy to fall into."

This one was bubblegum pink, the title stamped in cheerful cursive: Love Letters to Me. A cartoon woman posed with exaggerated confidence, writing in bed with her feet kicked up like life had never touched her too deeply.

Her squeal made me flinch.

"Yes! Perfect. Thank you!"

The smile I offered was one I'd practiced until it felt like a reflex. "Of course. I'll be at the register whenever you're ready."

I turned, quieting myself with motion. My fingers found the edge of my sweater sleeves, pulling them over each hand as I drifted down another aisle. The shelves closed around me like familiar sentinels, their silence a balm.

Voices danced faintly from the romance section.

A young woman stood beside her boyfriend, his arms a precarious tower of books. He raised a brow at a cover, awkward smile tugging at his lips. "Why are they always shirtless?"

"It's like a teaser," she laughed, placing another on his pile. "You get a taste of what the love interest is supposed to look like."

Their laughter trailed off behind me as I made my way to the front, where the old wooden stool waited like a loyal friend. It creaked under me as I crossed my legs and gathered my hair into a loose bun, fingers combing through dark strands. The sigh slipped from me before I could catch it.

4:45 p.m.

Right on time.

There he was—passing the window like he always did. The kind of man who looked like he'd been dreamt into existence. Tall, sharp-jawed, dressed in minimalist black that still somehow screamed wealth. Intentional. Effortless.

The bell above the door chimed.

"There you are," I whispered in thought.

He stepped inside, eyes skimming the waist-high shelves. Large hands, slender fingers. His gaze lifted—hazel... no... gray eyes catching mine. There was a smile, subtle but sure of itself, tugging at the corner of his mouth. He moved toward me, each step coaxing a creak from the ancient floorboards.

"I'm a billionaire CEO," he said, voice rich with confidence. "I need a wife to secure my inheritance. Just one year. No touch, no drama. We split the money. What do you say?"

I blinked. The illusion shattered.

"I said I'm ready to check out." Her voice sliced through the fantasy like a blade.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. "Oh—sorry, I just..."

She slid the book toward me with practiced indifference. That hideous bubblegum-pink poetry collection. 

I suppose I shouldn't judge. After all, I'd be going home after this shift to write a smut-laced short story about some stranger I watch walk past the window every day. A man I've never spoken to, spun into a billionaire with a hollow heart and a contract marriage in desperate need of love. The trope as worn as the floorboards beneath my feet—predictable, indulgent, but safe in its familiarity.

"Enjoy," I said, the smile never faltering.

What can I say? I have an overactive imagination. Or maybe it's just that reality rarely satisfies, and the mind seeks escape wherever it can—especially when surrounded by stories for hours on end.

It was likely both.

The bell chimed, soft but jarring, and I lowered my gaze to the counter. Irritation pricked at the edge of my thoughts.

Where was I?

"We split the money. What do you say?"

His voice—smooth like velvet, but rough with gravel. Contradictory. I paused, registering the inconsistency. I'd fix the line later.

"Excuse me?"

A voice cut through the daydream like a snapped thread.

I swallowed a sigh and forced a smile to rise—like steam off hot tea. "Yes, how can I..."

My words stalled.

It's him.

"It's you," I breathed, the words tumbling out before I could catch them.

"It's me?" he echoed, his brows pulling together in quiet confusion.

That face—so achingly handsome, so vividly imagined in a hundred versions—was now real. No longer the fantasy filtered through prose, but flesh and breath and furrowed brows. And he looked... utterly confused.

Turns out I was wrong. His eyes weren't gray or hazel—they were brown. Beautiful pools of earth with flecks of honey that caught the light. His skin was sun-warmed tan, his chestnut hair thick and slightly tousled. He looked like warmth. Like home.

But the angle of his jaw, the way his Adam's apple dipped when he swallowed, the broad slope of his shoulders and the stretch of his shirt across his chest—he also looked like sex.

"Do we know each other?" he asked again, breaking the spell he'd unknowingly cast over me.

I scrambled. "Hi, um, welcome to Bookwyrm's Hoard. Is there anything I can help you with?" My throat felt parched. My cheeks burned.

He studied me a moment, tilting his head slightly as his arms folded across his chest. The fabric of his button-up pulled against his biceps in a way that should've been illegal. He exhaled, the corner of his mouth lifting into the softest grin.

"I was wondering if you were hiring," he said, voice low and smooth, the cadence brushing my skin like a fingertip.

"You... wish to work here?" I blinked, glancing around the store. It was cozy—bookshelves crammed full of well-loved novels, hanging pots with vines cascading from the ceiling, the smell of coffee seeping in from the back café, soft music humming in the air. It had charm. Personality. Quiet magic.

He did not fit in. He looked like money. And I became painfully aware of how far apart our worlds must be. Which, of course, only made it hotter. The perfect setup—opposites attract, grumpy/sunshine, different social classes. Mental note: I need to write this feeling later.

He let out a soft laugh. "No. My daughter's fourteen and she's looking for a summer job."

Oh. He's a father. A daddy?

That's hot.

My eyes darted to his hand—rough, veined. No ring. Not even the shadow of one.

I needed to pull it together.

"She'd have restricted hours, given her age," I said, voice steadier now. "But we're always looking for help."

I stepped down from the stool and crouched beside the desk, rummaging through the shelf until I found the minor employment forms.

When I stood and handed it over, his eyes met mine again, warm and unreadable.

"Perfect. Thank you." He extended a hand. "Jackson Reyes."

"Ava Serran," I managed, somehow not stammering as our hands touched.

"We'll be in touch, Ava."

He said my name like it belonged to him.

Then he turned, the sound of the bell above the door slicing through the moment as he walked out.

I dropped onto the stool, hands gripping the edge of the desk, breath shuddering out of me.

Lord have mercy. He was so hot. So real. I needed to calm down. But the way he said my name... I wanted to hear it again.

And again.

And again.

I swallowed before rising, trying to compose myself.

"He was hot."

"Shit, Alex!" I jumped. "You scared me."

She laughed, clearly enjoying herself. "I was watching from the coffee counter. You looked so frazzled I thought something was wrong—but no, I think I just witnessed the most awkward interaction to ever grace this bookstore."

My face flushed. "It wasn't that bad." I exhaled, tugging my cardigan tighter around my waist and folding my arms.

"Sure, sure," she teased. "Whatever helps you sleep at night." She unknotted her black apron and slipped it over her head. "I'm going on break—try not to gawk at any more customers." She draped the apron over the counter and sauntered off.

I watched her leave, a silent comparison unfolding in my mind. If I were Alex, I probably wouldn't have choked on my own saliva like that.

She was the kind of girl people wrote songs about—naturally beautiful, no makeup necessary. Her features soft, delicate. Tall, effortlessly slender, with curves that weren't loud but perfectly balanced her frame.

I sighed, letting my eyes drift shut.

Jackson's hands slid down the length of Alex's waist, drawing her close. She looped her arms over his shoulders, fingers toying in the back of his hair. Their lips hovered, teasing. Not quite kissing—just... breathing the same air. And then his hands cupped her bottom, squeezing. She gasped, soft and open-mouthed, before closing the distance. Their lips met—slow, warm, full of desire.

God, his lips looked soft.

My fingers grazed my own mouth, tracing the shape.

I bet he's an incredible kisser.