Page 3 of Claimed By the Bookstore Alpha
Turning Pages sat wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store on Lantern Street, its forest green exterior and hand-painted sign giving it an old-world charm that made my writer's heart skip. The window display featured a selection of literary classics and local histories. It was exactly the kind of independent bookstore that was a dying breed.
Which was probably why I'd been procrastinating about this visit for weeks.
I shifted the canvas bag higher on my shoulder and checked my reflection in the coffee shop window one more time. My hair wasn’t sticking up and my sweater was free of coffee stains. I’d practiced my pitch enough that I could probably recite it in my sleep. There was no reason to be nervous about talking to one bookstore owner regarding carrying my books.
Except that this wasn't just any bookstore owner.
I'd first noticed Turning Pages six months ago when I'd moved to town, but it wasn't until last month that I'd actually caught sight of the owner. I'd been walking past with an armloadof groceries when movement in the window caught my eye. A tall, dark-haired guy was arranging books on a display table. He was probably in his mid-thirties so around my age with a lean build that suggested he stayed active despite spending his days surrounded by books. I'd noticed him humming along to music from his earbuds and I’d bopped along too.
Even from outside, I could see the concentration on his face and how he tilted his head slightly when considering where each book should go.
Something about that moment had stuck with me. Maybe it was the obvious care he took with his work, or how the afternoon light caught the sharp line of his jaw. Whatever it was, I'd found myself walking past Turning Pages a lot more often, usually with some excuse about needing coffee or browsing the vintage shop next door.
I'd learned a few things during my casual stalking. His name was Flynn and he lived above the store because I'd seen him highlighted in the upper windows during evening walks. He kept regular hours but seemed to work alone most of the time. His hair always looked like he'd been running his fingers through it, and he dressed in layers as though he was constantly cold.
And he was gorgeous in a brooding way that had my brain conjuring up soulful poetry.
The bell above the door announced my entrance, and the guy didn't even look up. He was focused on a spreadsheet and spun a pencil in one hand with practiced efficiency. The dismissive body language should have been discouraging, but honestly, It just made me more curious.
When he finally glanced up after my greeting, I got my first close look at those gray eyes. He had the kind of bone structure that belonged in a Renaissance painting but there was something softer around his eyes as if he was perpetually tired or worried about something.
My prepared speech completely evaporated.
He assumed I was job hunting, which wasn't surprising given my age and the way I was hovering nervously by his counter.Get it together, Clark. I managed to explain about the books, expecting the usual polite brush-off that most store owners gave to unknown authors.
But Flynn's reaction was different. More abrupt, like he'd built walls specifically to keep people out. Not authors like me but people in general.
When I showed him my dragon book, something changed. He handled it carefully, really looking at the illustrations instead of giving it a cursory glance. Those long fingers turned pages with a reverence that told me everything I needed to know about him. He understood books on a fundamental level.
I was convinced that he was lonely as I studied his expression when he examined the cover. He was similar to my dragon.
The comparison slipped out before I could stop myself, and for a moment his guard dropped completely. I caught a glimpse of something vulnerable underneath all that control.
But the walls slammed back up, and he was shoving my book across the counter like it had personally offended him.
But I'd seen what was underneath. Flynn wasn't just grumpy, he was protecting something. And perhaps that something was himself. Or it might be his carefully ordered world, or maybe his right to exist without having to meet other people's expectations.
I gathered my books and made a graceful exit, leaving him with the dragon story and my contact information. As the door chimed behind me, I couldn't shake the feeling that something important had happened, even if I couldn't pinpoint what it was.
The coffee shop next door was busy with the usual afternoon crowd, so I ordered a vanilla latte and found a table by the window where I could see Turning Pages without being too obvious. My phone buzzed with a text from my editor askingabout the progress on my next manuscript, but I ignored it in favor of watching the Turning Pages storefront.
Was I being creepy? Probably a little. But there was something about Flynn that I couldn't shake, and it wasn't just his looks. I recalled him handling my book and the attention he'd paid to the illustrations as well as the moment when his guard had dropped.
Plus, there was the way he'd spoken my name. Just "Have a good day, Clark," but he'd said it as if he was trying the words out and seeing how they felt on his tongue. Like maybe he'd been thinking about me too.
But I was being silly. He’d probably forgotten I existed.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a call from my best friend Miranda.
"Please tell me you finally asked out the mysterious bookstore owner," she trilled.
“I asked him to stock my books." I stirred my latte. “I didn’t come on to him.”
"Uh-huh. And how did that go?"
"He said no."
"But?"
