What came over me in there? Was I…flirting?
The door behind me jingles as it opens, and—because of the aforementioned jitteriness and overall anxiety—I jump about a mile in the air.
“Ready to go, Sunshine?” Felix says as I whirl around. His camera still rests on its strap around his neck, and his blonde hair is now bathed in the pink-orange light of the sunset staining the sky. A plastic bag hangs over one arm—seems like he’s going to read some romance, which I firmly believe everyone should do.
But there’s nothing weird about his expression as he looks at me, nothing that screamsI’m judging you for having a crush on me in the past.
“I’m ready,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and neutral. “I should probably head home.”
“That’s fine.” The words are light, easy, and for a second I think I’m off the hook—until I meet his eye and see the look he’s now giving me.
Like his gaze is a push pin about to stick me to a cork board. That’s what it feels like, the look in his eyes. Inevitable, inescapable.
I swallow. Is it too late to take off running down the sidewalk? How long would it take me to jog home from here?
Not terribly long, maybe, but—I glance down at my loose jeans and my white shirt and my cute-but-not-for-running shoes—it would be a pain. Besides, I am a grown woman. And grown women know how to suck it up and endure discomfort when necessary.
So I fall into step next to Felix as we head to the little parking lot, silent save for the evening ambiance and the crinkle of plastic as his bag brushes against his legs.
Awkward. This is so awkward.
Or is it just me? Do I speak? Do I stay quiet?
“Got you a book,” Felix says, taking the decision out of my hands—and surprising me thoroughly in the process.
I look blankly over at him. “You—what?”
He holds up the plastic bag, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “A book. It’s something you read. That store back there sells them”—he jerks his chin over his shoulder in the direction of Pretty Page, and I roll my eyes—“so I bought you one.”
And in spite of my lingering humiliation from what I admitted to this man, I can’t help the tendrils of curiosity that thread through me now.
He bought me a book? Why?
But once again, he saves me the trouble of speaking.
“You said if I bought you a book, you’d smile at me some more.”
Huh. I did say that. He actually did it?
“Thank you,” I say dumbly, taking the bag he offers. He doesn’t watch me open it; he just continues strolling along, his gaze ahead of us, casual as you please. That’s my preference anyway. I sort of hate it when people watch me open their gifts.
I reach inside and feel the smooth, sturdy hard cover of whatever he chose, grasping it gently and pulling it out.
“I thought you might like it because you have sisters,” he says as I gaze down at a beautiful edition ofLittle Women. “I guess—you might have read it already,” he goes on, and I think there might be a hint of self-consciousness in his voice, “but Jess said book lovers like pretty books even if they’ve already read them.”
“She’s right,” I murmur as I run my hands over the book. It’s stunning—black with intricate floral designs and the title in gold cursive. And just like the buds and flowers on their smooth black background, something warm and tentative begins to bloom inside me.
I examine that feeling as we walk; I prod it a little to see what it’s made of.
Then I step on it and crush it under my heel.
Inhaling deeply and then clearing my throat, I say, “This was so kind, Felix.” I look over at him. “Thank you. Really.”
And then I smile at him. A real smile, because I can feel it, ready to bloom if I let it. So, because I told him I would, I smile at him.
“Ah,” he says softly, his lips hooking into a satisfied grin. “Look at that, Sunshine. Beautiful.” And it’s only when I see the tension ease out of his shoulders that I realize he must have been nervous about his gift. “Have you read it before?” he says, nodding at the book.
“Once, I think,” I admit. “When I was in high school. But I don’t remember much. I’d like to read it again.”
