“Yeah, go ahead,” I say, bending to scoop it up. “I’m just gonna check out that bookshop for a sec. You go on ahead.”
She gives me a look but keeps walking. She hates going to the bookstore with me, knowing I can spend hours in there.
Good girl.
I duck inside, the little bell above the door chiming with a soft, old-fashioned ding that feels way too wholesome for what I’m about to do. The scent of dust, aged paper, and pine-scented candle wax hits me like nostalgia laced with mischief.
I weave between the tall shelves until I find the blind spot I remembered, near the poetry section, where the cameras don’tquite reach. The air is warmer back here, the light dimmer, filtered through stained glass and dust motes.
Perfect.
I pull out my phone, tap into Messages, and scroll until I find the name:Wesley.
Harmless. Pretty. Eager.
A flirtation I shelved before things got too boring.
But today, he’s a spark I want to light.
“Hey. Meet me at Solace Books in 10 mins. You’ll like the reason. xx”
I drop my phone back in my coat, then slide a book titledThe Chaos of Cravingfrom the shelf. Fitting.
My fingers brush the edge of the page like I’m caressing a secret.
My heart is doing something it hasn’t in days. It’s racing from anticipation. A pulse of rebellion in my wrist, my throat, between my thighs.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
The door chimes again.
And there he is.
Wesley Archer. Tall, sandy-blond, with a boy-next-door grin that made half the cheer squad fall in love junior year. He’s the kind of guy who still wears cologne to the gym and says things like “You deserve better” and almost means it.
His eyes light up when he sees me. Predictable. Delicious. Easy.
“Lyra,” he says, all charm and casual confidence. “Is this a trap or a fantasy?”
“Depends on how good you’ve been,” I purr, stepping just a little too close. Not touching, but just enough to suggest I might.
“You look…” He blinks, scanning me from boots to lips. “Incredible.”
“Say it again,” I tease. “Slower this time.”
His laugh is boyish, sounding nervous and flattered. “You. Look. Incredible.”
I lean in, pressing a palm to his chest lightly. His shirt is thin, soft, and warm under my hand. I let it linger just long enough.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, my voice lower now. “I needed a little… company.”
“Anytime.” He’s smiling, but there’s a flush on his cheeks now. Good.
We move to the classics aisle, where I pretend to browseWuthering Heightswhile he pretends not to stare at my mouth. I tilt my head and bare my neck like it’s an invitation. My pulse hammers under my skin like a warning I refuse to heed.
He steps closer, and surprisingly, I don’t recoil. His hand finds my waist, hesitant and reverent, trembling just a little.