Page 32 of Notice Me, Jameson Hart
I try to picture Dad intimidated by anyone, and it doesn’t compute. He’s a behemoth of a man. “But you talked to her anyway?”
“Actually, she talked to me first. I was drinking coffee during a break and dribbled it down my chin. She handed me napkins and made a joke about the conference coffee.” Dad smiles at the memory. “We ended up having lunch together. Then dinner.”
“But how did you know it was more than just casual conversation?”
Dad considers this. “I couldn’t stop thinking about her laugh and the way she explained complicated policies as though she was telling a story. I found myself searching for her at each session and being disappointed when we weren’t in the same workshops.” He turns to look at me directly. “When someone takes up that much real estate in your brain, when their opinions matter more than others, that’s when you know.”
“What if they’re completely different from you?”
“Well, look at it this way. Diana runs athletic programs for an entire school district. I work at a high school and sometimes teach PE. On paper, we shouldn’t work, but different doesn’t mean incompatible. Sometimes, different is exactly what you need. Now, are you ready to head inside?”
I nod. We get out of the van and dash through the rain to the bookstore. The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and the familiar smell of books and coffee wraps around me in a warm hug.
Pages & Prose is one of those perfect independent bookstores that sells new and used novels. It features creaky wooden floors and shelves that touch the ceiling. Small couches line the perimeter, and a small bakery is located in the back.
“I’m going to browse the sports section,” Dad says. “Take your time.”
Nodding, I wander toward the young adult section, running my fingers along the spines as I go. But Dad’s words keep echoing in my head.When someone takes up that much real estate in your brain…
I scoff. If that’s the case, then Jameson Hart has become the landlord of my entire mind. Every blond guy I see makes me do a double-take. I can’t put mustard on anything without thinking about him pointing the bottle at me. Even football, which I’ve successfully ignored for eighteen years, suddenly matters because it’shisthing.
I pull two books at random off the shelf—one ends up beingThe Miseducation of Cameron Post—and flip through their pages. The corners are soft from countless readings, and someone has penciled notes in the margins. I cringe, but to each their own. I’m debating whether to add it to my collection when I hear a voice that has my heart nearly flying out of my mouth.
“Excuse me, could you tell me where I can find the young adult section?”
My head snaps up. That’s Jameson Hart’s voice, coming from the front desk. My fingers go numb, and the other book slips from my hands, hitting the floor with a thud that sounds way too loud in the quiet bookstore.
“Oh, you’re in luck,” the worker replies. “It’s right around that corner.”
No, no, no.This cannot be happening.
I scramble to pick up the book. Maybe if I hide behind the shelf and pretend to be deeply engrossed in—I glance at the spine—The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue.Perfect. Nothing says “please don’t talk to me” like intently studying a book about historical gay adventures.
Footsteps approach.Fee-fi-fo-fum.I hold my breath and stare at the back of the book until the words blur.
“Oh! Hi, Kevin!”
Jameson Hart is three feet away, and his presence is so immediate and jarring I nearly drop the book again. He’s in a dark green hoodie that’s drenched across the shoulders and biceps, and his dark-wash jeans are painted onto his legs. It’s obvious he dashed in from the parking lot from how flushed his face is. The rosy cheeks make him that much sexier.
He waves, rather than do the expected jock bro-fist or chin nod. The move is so foreign to see on someone whose hands are the size of Nevada.
“Hi.” My voice comes out normal, which is a miracle considering my heart is lodged right behind my Adam’s apple.
“What brings you to the bookstore on this wonderful day?” He gestures vaguely at the window where rain continues to pound against the glass. His sarcasm has me smiling despite my nerves.
“I love to read.” I hold up the two books as evidence. “Plus, I was going stir-crazy at home. My brothers have been playingCall of Dutyfor approximately seventeen hours straight.”
Jameson laughs, and it’s not the polite chuckle people usually give during small talk. It’s genuine and makes his eyes scrunch. “I feel that. Ethan’s been moping around the house because of the rain. That’s actually why I’m here.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, and droplets scatter. “I’m trying to find him a book. Something to get him through this weather without driving us both insane.”
“What does he like to read?”
“That’s the thing—he mentioned wanting to try young adult romance? But I don’t even know where to begin.” He looks utterly lost, scanning the shelves as if they’re written in a foreign language. “I usually stick to sports biographies and the occasional Stephen King novel.”
My brain does this weird thing where it switches from “oh God, Jameson Hart is talking to me” mode to “someone needsbook recommendations” mode. This is easy. Talking about books is the one thing I can do without having a complete meltdown.
“You’re in luck. Young adult romance is having a huge moment right now,” I say, setting the books in my hand on a nearby shelf. “Does he have any specific preferences? Contemporary? Fantasy? LGBTQ?”
“He didn’t say.” Jameson shrugs. “He’s fifteen, so I think he’s still trying to figure out what he likes.”
