The Bookshop On The Corner. Rebecca RaisinЧитать онлайн книгу.
so good-looking except in my imagination.
“On…” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.
Damn! No more romance reading during work hours.
I coughed again, this time more forcefully, to pull myself together and focus on the job of selling books. “Right, a book on, er…” It was a gift of mine to be able to garner what book a person was looking for just by their dress, and their mannerisms, but this guy had me stumped. All I could imagine was that little man crease thing, right where his jeans hung. Note to self: stop dropping gaze to his nether regions.
I was doing it again. The mute, bamboozled, mouth-open thing.
“I’d say you’re a thriller man.” There. Done.
He shook his head. “Wrong.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I said, “What do you mean ‘wrong’? You have thriller written all over you.”
He made a huge show of looking for the word thriller on his clothing; he pulled his tee shirt out, and, oh, good God…his six-pack rippled, exactly as it did on the hero of a Harlequin cover.
This time I shook myself as though I’d just come out of the ocean. I couldn’t keep clearing my throat and coughing; he’d think I was sick, or worse contagious, or something.
“Are you OK?” he asked, tilting his head.
I moved from behind the counter, and headed towards the front door. It was steamy in here all of a sudden. I made a mental note to open some more windows in future. And maybe stock an ice pack or two.
“I’m totally fine. Just a little hot.” I needed some space. This guy had me dreaming Harlequin, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to do that and keep the giddy, dreamy look off my face.
He followed me, leaning against the opposite door jamb. “Let me guess, you’re more of a romance reader?”
I double blinked and hastily said, “I am not!” Please tell me I didn’t say out loud his abs rippled. “I mainly read true crime. And horror. The gorier, the better,” I big-fat lied. For some reason he looked like the kind of guy who’d belittle romance readers, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing.
He gave me the once-over, a very slow up and down, that made me shrink under his scrutiny. “You look more like a romance reader to me.”
I squared my shoulders. “And what exactly does a romance reader look like?”
“Let’s see.” He scratched his chin as if he was contemplating. “She’s tiny, like a doll. Has perfectly cut black bangs, which highlight her mesmerizing doe eyes. Nervous around strangers, unaware that her hands flutter like the wings of a butterfly when she’s thinking things she doesn’t want anyone to know…”
I gasped, and put my hands behind my back.
“Her voice is husky, betraying her desires…”
“OK, stop. What’s with all the flowery prose? Are you a romance writer? Are you one of those men who moonlight as Cindii Lovenest, or something, to help sell more books?” I narrowed my eyes at him.
He laughed, throwing his head back, and showed his perfect white teeth. No actually, this wasn’t a romance novel, let me adjust that — he laughed, throwing his head back, showed his perfect white teeth, which would one day in the near future, possibly ten years or so away, be not as white. There.
“I am a writer. Just not a romance writer. I’m a reporter from New York.”
“A reporter from New York, hey? Aha, let me guess, you want a self-help book? How to have it all? How to avoid living the cliché? No, wait, how to make every minute count?”
He put a hand to his chest and scoffed. “I detect sarcasm! Do you think us New Yorkers are that bad, really?”
I shrugged. “I only know what I read.”
“Which is romance.”
“Bloody, gory, zombie-loving horror with chainsaws, and ninja stars, and a little true crime, remember.”
“Liar.”
It was not like me to be so extroverted, and I didn’t usually think so…lewdly. This stranger had some weird kind of pull over me, eking out a different Sarah from the one who actually existed. Gone was the girl in a corner, nose in a book, somehow replaced with a girl expertly flirting, using fast-paced banter with someone who was definitely not my type. Too handsome was too hard.
But he smelled good. Not of the tree-bark, glorious man-sweat, musky he-scent, rather I’ve-doused-myself-with-some-male-perfume-that-smells-a-little-like-cotton-candy, and spice, making me consider taking a quick nibble of his skin. This was of course highly inappropriate and a little weird.
He ran a hand through his dark too-long hair. See, too-long? He was the epitome of a romance-novel hero. And it wasn’t a cliché, it just was a little too long, in that it curled around his ears in an enticing way that would make women want to tuck it behind for him. It was a ploy, and I bet he knew it. He looked around mid-thirties and had examined what women read about, and, I’d bet, copied the brief, right down to, well…his briefs. I had a twenty-second battle with my eyes, which were trying to drop their gaze to see if his underwear was the usual hero style.
“Anyway… Mr?”
“Ridge.”
“Mr Ridge—”
“No, it’s Ridge. Ridge Warner.”
I snorted, which I tried to cover with a fake hiccough. I hated that I couldn’t control my snorts. “Your name is Ridge? Like from The Bold and the Beautiful?”
“Maybe my mom was a fan of the show? Who knows?” Mirth danced around in his blue God-damn sexy hero eyes.
“Ridge,” I managed to sputter. I couldn’t stop laughing. I just couldn’t.
“And what’s your name?”
Internal sigh. Could it be any plainer? “Sarah. Sarah Smith.”
He pursed his lips. “Sounds like an alias to me. I mean, is this really a bookshop or a front for your spy business? Are you CIA?”
“FBI, actually.” I grinned at him, before catching myself. This little exchange was fun, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe a big city reporter would be interested in me. That would only happen in a fairy tale. “So, what can I help you with, Ridge?” I was almost certain I managed to hide the lip wobble by clamping my teeth down, and looking away. Ridge. I had to stop thinking of his name or I’d never compose myself.
“Have you got any Keats?”
“A poetry man — color me surprised.”
I was about to amble to the poetry section when he caught my arm. I tingled from his touch, but tried to mask it by whistling. Whistling? He must’ve thought I was cuckoo.
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