“Just pick whatever snacks your little heart desires so we can get out of here before the shelves are bare and someone tries to fight me over a can of beans.”
Without missing a beat, she grabs five bags of chips off the shelf—five, like she’s stocking up for the apocalypse, or planning to emotionally eat her way through a reading marathon.
My jaw ticks, but I don’t say a word. I just stand there while she piles them into the cart like she’s building a crunchy, sodium-packed fortress between us. I’m learning something about Catalina; she finds joy in chaos. She chooses chaos. And maybe—I kind of like watching her do it.
We head to the checkout, and I’m halfway through handing the cashier a crumpled twenty when I hear her squeal beside me.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, tugging on my arm like I’m not trying to pay. “Look at that romance bookstore! I have to go in there. It’s so damn cute!”
I glance down at her, then over at the storefront just outside the window—Bells Books, owned by Linda Harrison. I haven’t stepped in there since my breakup, but for Catalina, I’ll go.
Catalina is practically vibrating beside me, bouncing on her toes like she’s about to spontaneously combust from pure serotonin.
“Do I look like the kind of man who reads romance?” I mutter, handing over the cash to the cashier.
She sighs deeply. “No. Definitely not. You look like the kind of man who thinks reading instructions is fun.”
The cashier snorts behind the counter, and I shoot her a warning look that only makes Catalina grin harder. I collect the change, stuffing it in my pocket, resisting the urge to groan as she’s already halfway out the door, as her ponytail sways and lavender bow bouncing with every step.
“Catalina,” I call, exasperated as I catch up to her, “what kind of romance books are we even talking about here?”
She stops in her tracks, spinning around with wide, innocent eyes that are anything but. Her fingers wrap around mine without hesitation and squeezes.
Just one quick, impulsive squeeze. And it guts me. It’s not a big gesture. Not something anyone else would even notice, but it’s everything.
For all her mouth, sass, and attitude, I’m learning she doesn’t let people in easily. She talks like she’s bulletproof, but she touches like she’s terrified to be left behind. And in that second—her hand in mine, and her eyes locked on mine—I know I’m fucked.
Utterly, completely, and undeniably fucked.
Before I can get a single word out, she bolts. Hair flying behind her, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, full speed toward the bookstore like her life depended on it. I just stand there for a second, shaking my head as a low laugh rumbles in my chest.
I load the groceries into the back of the truck, slamming the door shut, locking it before trailing after her, following the trail of chaos she always leaves in her wake.
There’s aFor Leasesign taped inside the window, just faint enough to be missed if you weren’t looking. A soft chime rings overhead as I push the door open, and immediately,the smell of fresh paper and worn bindings hits me, the kind of scent women probably dream about.
Romance books line every shelf, overflowing from display tables, tucked into cozy nooks. Different sub-genres are labeled with handwritten signs, small stickers, and custom bookmarks scattered throughout the store like candy.
Linda gives me a knowing smile the second I walk in. She doesn’t say anything as she points a wrinkled finger toward the contemporary romance section before turning back to the register.
I follow her gesture, as I make my way through the aisles until I spot Catalina sitting cross-legged on the ground, her back against the shelves like she’s already made herself at home. She’s surrounded by a fortress of books, flipping through copies one by one, her brows furrowed in concentration.
I lean against a nearby shelf, crossing my arms. “Why the hell are you making a mess looking at the same damn book over and over?” I ask, raising a brow.
She looks up at me as if I just stabbed her in the gut. “Um, excuse you,” she snaps, clutching a paperback to her chest. “I need a perfect copy. If it’s scratched, bent, or ugly, I don’t fucking want it.”
“Mental note. Never ask you that again.”
“You’re learning,” she chirps, returning to her book hunt with surgical precision.
I shift my weight, rocking back on my boots, watching her pile grow until it’s almost ridiculous. With a grunt, I lower myself onto the floor next to her, glancing at the top book.
I nudge the top one with my knuckle. “What’s this one about?” I ask, genuinely curious now.
She perks up, her face softening like she wasn’t expecting me to actually give a shit. She holds it up, brushing her fingers over the cover.
“This one’s calledElevated Ambitions.It’s a spicy billionaire romance where the heroine blows money like crazy, and her dad forces her to work for his company. She ends up falling for her broody boss. So hot.”
I raise a brow. “Huh. Wonder what that says about your taste in men.”
