Page 122 of Fake Fae-Ancée

I’ve always had a weak spot for redheads. Tall redheads, especially. He looms over the counter like a lighthouse, smiling at me with the kind of boyish charm the ladies out there doubtlessly find quite enchanting. Too bad he is obviously here to buy a book for his girlfriend. Guys like him always have a girlfriend.

I pull the book across the scanner. The register beeps.

"Did you catch a cold?"

"Excuse me?" I blink, puzzled that he speaks to me at all. On his previous visits to the bookstore our conversations have never ventured beyond: "That'll be 17,50 €, please," and: "Don’t forget your receipt."

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong." His face falls. "I was just asking because of your hat."

Crap! My hands shoot up, shielding the hem of the thick wool covering my ears. Has he noticed anything?

"What about it?" I utter.

"I was just wondering. You've been wearing the hat all week," he blurts as if he is just saying out loud what is popping into his mind. "I mean, it is warm, even for September, don’t you agree? People are still out swimming in the ocean and everything, so I was wondering why you were wearing a hat. Especially since it's not particularly chilly in here. And so I thought one explanation might be that you might have caught a cold. I'm sorry, I know you should never ask a lady that."

"You were wondering about my hat?" Both my eyebrows raise so high I’m sure they must be disappearing under the thick red wool.

No, he hasn’t noticed. He can’t have.

"I apologize," he says hurriedly. "I don't mean it to sound condescending or anything. You have to believe me. And now that I think about it, it’s probably a fashion statement, right? And I have no clue about fashion, like, at all, and I just totally made an ass of myself." He scratches his neck. "I’m sorry. I probably should stop talking now."

"It's alright." I bite my lip and slide the book into a paper bag, my face flooding with treacherous heat and my fingers feeling more clammy than ever before.

"That’ll be 17, 50 €," I say with the most genuine service smile I can muster.

"Of course." Hastily he pulls out his wallet of his jeans pocket. He always wears jeans. And sneakers. And a suit jacket. And a messenger bag. He looks like one of those young, industrious start-up bosses. Not that I’ve ever seen one around here — this place is literally in the middle of nowhere — but they look like that in movies I guess.

He swipes his card through the scanner and the computer does its job, loading and spinning a little circle round and round on my display. It does that for quite a while. Of course, now of all times, the POS system has to plunge into slow motion.

"Is it?" Fallout-Boy asks into the awkward silence.

"What do you mean?"

"Is it a fashion statement?" He smiles a wry smile. "The hat."

"More or less," I press out. I have no clue about fashion, either. My requirements for clothing is covering me up and at the same time deflecting from my person as much as possible. But he has a point, it is way too warm for September and wearing a red woolen hat indoors is like wearing a glowing target around my neck. I should have considered that.

I slide him the bag on the counter.

"Is it any good?" he asks, taking it with his large hand.

"Huh?" I blink, puzzled, suddenly having trouble breathing back in.

"The book." That smile again. He should really be careful where he is aiming with that. Especially when he has a girlfriend.

This thought shakes me out of my stupor. I straighten myself. Stop acting so weird. He has a girlfriend.

"You should know better than me," I say, taking half a step back from the counter. "You bought half of the series."

"But I'd be interested in your opinion," Fallout-Boy says.

I blink at him again.

"Your professional opinion," he adds, and that wry smile of his does something with my tummy that feels like I’m about to do a flip-flop.

Someone clears their throat somewhere from farther back in the store. My Incubus-cousin is now standing behind the table with children's books, throwing me a pointed look over the cardboard display of a crosseyed donkey advertising the alphabet.

"My professional opinion," I repeat, my eyes flicking back to Fallout-Boy.

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