Page 1 of Claimed By the Bookstore Alpha
ONE
FLYNN
The bell above the door chimed, and I didn't bother looking up from my inventory spreadsheet. It would be another browser who'd flip through three books, take a selfie with my vintage shelves and leave without buying anything. I'd gotten good at ignoring them.
"Excuse me?"
The voice was so cheerful my teeth ached. I glanced up to find a guy about my age standing at the counter, holding a bulging canvas bag. Everything about him screamed bright sunshine from his tousled hair to his beaming smile. And he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
I pushed down an unwelcome flash of curiosity. At thirty-four, I should have been past getting distracted by cute guys with infectious smiles but my wolf took an interest in the newcomer, which was a complication I didn't need.
"We're not hiring." I turned back to my spreadsheet, hoping the dismissal would stick.
"Oh, I'm not looking for a job." The guy's smile somehow got more intense. "I'm Clark Branigan. I write children's books, andI was hoping you might be interested in stocking some of my titles."
My pen stopped moving. Authors had that hopeful look that made me want to hide in my office until they gave up and left.
“I’m published by Sunnyside Press.” Clark reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of picture books. "You probably get a lot of requests, but I think these would be perfect for your store. You have such a wonderful children's section."
The children's section he was talking about consisted of two small shelves tucked into the back corner and most of the books were published twenty years ago. I'd been meaning to update it for years, but children's books meant children in my store, and children meant noise and chaos and parents who let their kids treat my shop as a playground.
"I'm not interested. Sorry.”
Clark's smile faltered for half a second before bouncing back to full wattage. "Would you mind if I showed you one? I promise I'm not going to give you a hard sell. But you might like this one."
He slid a book across the counter before I could object. The cover showed a small dragon sitting in a library, surrounded by towering stacks of books. The title read "The Dragon Who Loved Stories" in friendly, hand-lettered text.
Despite myself, I picked it up. Stories and stacks. I got it. I'd have described it as cute but that word wasn’t in my vocabulary. The paper was good quality and the binding didn’t fall apart when I opened it. I flipped through a few pages, noting the warm illustrations and simple text. It wasn't terrible, which was more than I could say for most of what people tried to foist on me.
"The dragon reminds me of you." Clark’s voice was soft, almost shy. "Surrounded by all these books, kind of serious, but you can tell he really loves stories deep down."
My head snapped up. The comparison should have annoyed me, but something about how he said it, fondly rather thanmocking, made my chest tighten that had nothing to do with irritation.
"I'm not serious." That was a lie but I didn’t want him labeling me.
"Of course not." Clark’s eyes crinkled at the corners. "You're just... selective about who you share your enthusiasm with."
The wolf in my chest stretched and took an interest, which should not have happened. I pushed the book back across the counter.
“I’m sorry but no.”
"Right." Clark gathered up his books, seemingly unbothered by the rejection, but he left the dragon one. "Well, thanks for looking. I really appreciate it."
He headed for the door and paused. “If you ever change your mind, my contact info is on the back of that book. I'm local, so I could do a reading or something. Kids love it when authors visit."
The thought of a dozen sugar-fueled children running around my carefully organized shop made my eye twitch. “I rarely have authors do a reading.” Rarely as in never.
"No problem." His smile was as bright as ever.
"Have a good day, Clark.”
The door chimed behind him, leaving me alone with my spreadsheet and the lingering scent of something sweet that my wolf wanted to follow. I was still holding his book not knowing what to do with it.
Instead of shoving it under a pile, I found myself reading the back cover. Clark Branigan’s photo showed the same infectious smile, and as he’d mentioned, he lived in town and he also volunteered at the local literacy center. There was a quote from some reviewer calling his work “Heartwarming and authentic" and another praising his “Genuine love for storytelling."
I dropped the book into the drawer behind the counter and tried to focus on my inventory. I had real work to do, and I couldn't afford to get distracted by some overly cheerful children's book author who smelled like freshly laundered clothes and appealed to my wolf in a way that spelled nothing but trouble.
The afternoon crawled by with the usual handful of customers. Mrs. Lewis came in looking for the latest romance novel that “Isn’t too steamy, dear." A college student spent an hour reading manga in the corner without buying anything. And after that, a tourist asked if I had any books about the town's history, which I did.
