Page 7 of Audiophile

“Fine,” I assure him, not at all fine. The heat creeping up my neck is half hormonal, half anxious. The lights in the store no longer wash everything out. He’s warm and inviting, without a hint of gray.

“Do I know you?” He leans against the conveyor belt in a casual, effortless way that makes my toes curl. Closer up, the cleft from his dimple is twice as cute.

This is my chance to break out of the cycle, to flirt with a guy that Ihaven’tknown since kindergarten. Instead, a hysterical laugh builds in my throat. “No, definitely not. Have you been to Swift River before?”

“My first time,” the man says, his knuckles rapping against the conveyor. His voice isn’t as deep as Knight’s, but the comparison has me considering all sorts of things I shouldn’t while I’m working. Heat creeps into my cheeks when he glances down at my figure. I can’t tell if he’s acting normal and I’m reading into this, or if he’s checking me out.

“I hope you’re having a pleasant visit.” My smile is real, and it hurts from disuse. I’m going to be written up for drooling over my customer.

“It’s improving. I didn’t get your name—” He leans in until his fingers brush my collar, and he tugs a section of hair behind my shoulder. It feathers across my neck, and hopefully he can’t see the shiver that races through me. “—Petra,” he says, glancing at my nametag. He pulls his hand back, giving me space, but his smirk tugs up higher to one side.

“Hi.” I’m stupidly breathless. I can’t remember what bra I’m wearing today, but I hope it has a thick lining.

“It’s nice to meet you, Petra.” It might be my imagination, but his voice gets deeper with every sentence. Rougher. Sexier. My brain mixes it with Daddy Knight’s, and my overly-vivid imagination takes over. In my brightly colored mind, the stranger’s large handsslip from my shoulders down to my waist, pulling me onto the conveyor belt and underneath him.

I press my lips together, worried I’m transparent. In my head, his voice is throaty in my ear and he throws my shirt to the floor. “Do you need a bag today?” I ask, as the version of him in my imagination places warm kisses across my neck to my shoulder. Opening my mouth is the wrong move, and I duck behind the counter to hide my face as a wave of embarrassed giggles pours out.

“Petra?” He leans over the counter, dimple out in full force. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yep, fine!” I bite my lip to hold in my smile and keep my eyes down as I scan the last item. “Your total is $34.58.”

All of him shifts until he grows taller, more confident. Something slips over his face, a gleam of somethinghotbut also… I can’t put my finger on it. “Are all the clerks here as bubbly as you?”

I should say something flirty, but I’m out of practice and I’ve forgotten how. “All of them.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” He digs his wallet out with a pondering hum. Mytraitorbody responds to the sound as it travels through me like the rumbling tremor of an earthquake. Gripping the counter, I cross my legs as discreetly as I can. His eyes follow me from head to toe as he swipes his card, and he chuckles. “Can I fuck you in the breakroom, Petra? I’ll make it good for you.”

I blink away the hallucination as my face heats. “Sorry, what?”

His dimple deepens as his smile grows. “Are there any good restaurants in town, Petra?”

I shake my head, unwilling to let any more embarrassing sounds out. He leans on the little check writing stand, and his laser focus picks me apart like I’m a series of chains and cogs. Is he enjoying the way I flounder?

“No? Not a single one?”

“Petra!” Ray joins us. “What would your mom say? Forgetting to recommendBella Vita?”

“Fairlife and Belvita? What world am I in up here?” the stranger asks.

“Best Italian restaurant around, right, Petra?” Ray asks with a wink. “Speaking of, I wouldn’t mind if you brought in your mama’s panna cotta.”

“Sure.” I focus on Ray instead of the piercing brown eyes across from me.

The stranger hums, drawing my attention. “Maybe I’ll try it. Thanks again, Petra,” he says, and my pulse flutters. His bags crinkle as he picks them up, and the sound is deafening while I squirm under Ray’s discerning gaze.

“You’re welcome,” I say, but he’s already halfway to the door.

Holy hell.I haven’t been this turned on by something other than a speakerphone in longer than I can remember. I wait for the prickling heat on my chest to fade and the humiliation of my obvious reaction to pass, but it doesn’t. Ray shoots me another look, eyebrows raised, which I blatantly avoid. “Uh, Mrs. Robertson, do you need help reaching the ice cream?” I call out, scurrying away from Ray’s knowing face.

My cheeks flame periodically during my shift, and my awkwardness makes it a million times worse with each infraction. I’m beyond relieved to put it behind me when I close my register for the day. I reach for my journal, but it’s not there. I huff, crawling under the counter to retrieve it, but it’s not there either. I check the other registers, wondering if I’d switched and left it behind, but don’t find it.

It’s the icing on the cake of an embarrassing, emotional day, and something hot burns in the corners of my eyes.

I don’t bother with the sleeves of my raincoat, holding it over my head as I dart to my blue sedan and dive inside. I crank up the heater, letting waterfall sounds trickle from the speakers. With nothing to distract me, the conversation with the stranger in the market plays on repeat the entire drive to my parents’ house near the creek. Their house is midsized, pretty, and plays on theearthy, green elements that come naturally in Swift River. The only downfall is that I live here.

The loss of my notebook aches, and I pull into the driveway and rest my head in my hands. I try to see the bright side, because at least I have my Galin notes. If my stories went missing, I would be devastated.

While I carry my things inside, I pop in a headphone with gentle ASMR whispers to clear out my brain. Galin usually calls to me like an unread text as soon as I clock out. On ordinary days, I’m dying to get inside and lock myself in my room where my fairy world comes alive. But my diary is gone. Without the outlet for my complicated emotions, Galin seems more childish than normal.

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