Page 7 of Claimed By the Bookstore Alpha
Instead, I felt oddly... satisfied.
"It was louder than I expected," I admitted.
He laughed. "Kids usually are. But did you see their faces when you talked about your favorite books? You made reading sound like the coolest thing in the world."
"It is," I said without thinking, as heat rose in my cheeks.
"Exactly." I glowed under his approving smile. "That's what I saw in you from the beginning. You don't just sell books, Flynn. You love them. And when you share that love, even a little bit, it matters."
He gathered up his supplies while I straightened the chairs, and for a few minutes we worked in silence. It felt natural and easy.
"Thank you.” He prepared to leave. "For giving this a try. I know it wasn't easy for you."
"It wasn't terrible.” That was as close to a glowing endorsement as I was capable of giving.
His grin suggested he understood exactly what I was trying to say. "High praise from Flynn Tolliver.”
After he left, I spent an hour putting my store back in order, but I kept thinking about the afternoon and the kids listening to me when I'd talked about books. Sharing something I loved hadn't been a mistake just like the dragon in the story.
My wolf was eager to see Clark again, and I was too.
FOUR
CLARK
The reading had been a revelation.
Not just because Flynn had agreed to host it, though that had been surprising, but because of what I'd seen in those moments. He’d answered the children’s questions so carefully. He hadn’t talked down to them but treated them like real people.
And when he’d said, "It wasn't terrible" about the experience I could have hugged him. I wanted to but had held back. He was a soft touch under that gruff exterior, and he had no idea how obvious it was.
A few days later I was walking past Turning Pages on my way to nowhere in particular. Through the window Flynn was at his usual spot behind the counter, bent over his computer. His hair was doing that thing where it stuck up in the back, like he'd been running his hands through it in frustration.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened the door.
"Hey.” I waved, hoping he couldn’t hear my pounding heart. "How's the post-reading recovery going?"
He looked up. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased to see me but that barrier slid into place and his expression became more neutral.
“There was no permanent damage.” He pointed to some shelves. “I found the last of the goldfish crackers this morning."
"In the poetry section?"
"Philosophy, actually”
Now I had to figure out what to say next because he wasn’t helping. "What are you working on?"
Flynn shuffled papers spread across the counter. "Quarterly inventory. Trying to figure out what's selling versus what's just taking up space."
I leaned against the counter, careful not to disturb the paperwork. If I breathed too heavily or sneezed, they might fly onto the floor and we would have to get on our knees and retrieve them. Come to think of it, that mightn’t be a bad idea but I couldn’t do it to him. He preferred order.
"Find any surprises?"
"A few." He picked up a sheet and frowned. "Apparently I sold more poetry last quarter than I have in the past two years combined. No idea why."
"Maybe people are feeling more romantic lately," I suggested. "Or perhaps they're stressed and need an emotional outlet."
He got a faraway look in his eyes as if he was considering what I’d said. Had he no clue that people might buy books for emotional reasons rather than intellectual ones? “I suppose that makes sense."
