Page 11 of Claimed By the Bookstore Alpha
"I think you're better at it than you realize. But you do it with books instead of small talk."
Before I could ask him to explain, he was pulling me toward a booth displaying intricate book sculptures. The artist had carved entire scenes into old hardcover books, creating three-dimensional dioramas that told stories within stories.
Clark pointed to a sculpture that showed a tiny dragon curled around even tinier books. "It's like your store in miniature."
The artist, a woman in her sixties with paint-stained fingers, overheard us. "You own a bookstore."
"Yes. Turning Pages."
"I love that place!" Her face lit up. "You have the most wonderful selection of art books. I've bought half my reference library from you."
I stared at her, trying to place the face. "Mrs. Chancellor?"
"That's me. Though I usually look less like I've been wrestling with paint tubes when I visit your store."
"Flynn has the best eye for curating collections," Clark told her. "He doesn't just stock books, he creates experiences."
"I always tell people that Turning Pages is a real bookstore, not just a retail space,” the older woman said.
I'd never thought of myself as creating experiences or curating anything more meaningful than inventory. But hearing them talk about my store like it mattered gave me warm fuzzies.
"You okay?" Clark pulled me along an aisle as we moved away from Mrs. Chancellor’s booth.
"Just... processing."
"Want to get some air? There's a food truck area outside that's usually less crowded."
The afternoon sun warmed my face after hours under fluorescent lights. We found a picnic table away from the main crowd and Clark removed his feathered cap and ran his fingers through his hair.
"So?” he asked. "What's the verdict? Think you'll expand the science fiction section?"
"Probably.” I had to admit the visit was worthwhile. "This was... educational."
"But?"
Words tumbled around in my head and I thought not about books but about Clark. Even in costume and surrounded by the pandemonium of the convention, he wasn’t fazed by the bedlam. He belonged there and at the library and my store. He fit in everywhere.
"You're not what I expected." My almost whisper was so low I wasn’t sure he heard me.
One of his brows shot up. "What did you expect?"
"Someone less..." I shrugged.
"Less what?"
"Less everything, I suppose."
He nudged me with his shoulder and that got my wolf excited. “You know that goes both ways, right?"
Before I could ask what he meant, he stood and extended his hand. "Come on. There's one more thing I want to show you." He tucked his arm in mine.
My beast was wide awake, saying he liked Clark’s scent but whatever was happening between Clark and me was too fragile and important to question.
As we walked, my wolf perked up even more. Him being so alert had nothing to do with crowds or costumes.
Clark's scent had changed. It was still that warm, sweet smell I'd noticed that first day, but it was richer. And it carried undertones that made my pulse quicken and my wolf practically purr.
I glanced at my human companion. Was he aware of the change? He was chattering about book marketing. His cheeks were flushed from the afternoon sun and his hair mussed from wearing the cap. But there was something different when he glanced at me.
