Page 13 of Because I Liked A Boy
I narrow my eyes. “Pretty sure you’re not.”
“Book store’s two streets from the shop,” he says, already falling into step before I’ve made it to the door. “And it’s Monday.”
Theo raises his cup in a lazy salute. “Try not to kill each other before lunch.”
“Can’t make promises,” Hunter tosses back, holding the door like a gentleman—if gentlemen wore smirks that looked like trouble.
Outside, the air is cool enough to cut through the warmth of the coffee shop. Hunter falls into step beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his shoulder brushing mine a fraction too long before he slides his hand back into his pocket. Not an accident. Nothing with him ever is.
This is his thing now. Every Monday, like clockwork. I never asked him to. Never encouraged him. But he shows up anyway, like a bad habit I can’t shake.
“Tell me you at least noticed I wasn’t here yesterday,” he says, voice pitched low and warm, curling into my thoughts like smoke.
I keep my eyes ahead. “Tell me you at least noticed I didn’t care.”
His smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You cared.”
“I didn’t.”
“Mmh.” He lets it hang there, brushing against my arm again, deliberate as ever.
“You always this grumpy in the morning?” he asks.
“Only when I’m being stalked to work.”
“Walking a gorgeous woman to her job isn’t stalking. It’s good manners.”
“Calling yourself good is a stretch.”
He laughs under his breath, leaning closer. “But calling me gorgeous would be accurate?”
I shoot him a side-eye. “Keep fishing, fuckboy. Maybe you’ll catch something.”
“Already have,” he says, gaze dropping to my mouth before dragging back up. “But I’m a patient man.”
Heat curls low in my stomach before I can stop it. “Patient isn’t the word I’d use for you.”
“What word would you use?” His voice is softer now, teasing but edged with something that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally useful if I need something heavy lifted.”
His grin widens, sharp and victorious. “And here I thought you liked me for my charm.”
We round the last corner, and Page Turners comes into view—green paint peeling from its trim, windows crowded with books leaning against one another like tired old friends. The sign above the door is faded but steady: PAGE TURNERS — EST. 1968.
Hunter reaches the door first, pulling it open without breaking eye contact. “Guess this is where I leave you, Princess.”
“Guess so.”
“Try not to think about me too much.”
I step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. “I won’t.”
His smirk deepens. “You will.”
The bell jingles as the door closes behind me, but his scent—soap, engine oil, and trouble—lingers, curling stubbornly into the air.
The shop feels like stepping into another world. Dust motes spin in the slanted light from high windows. The air is thick with paper and cedar polish, every shelf groaning under the weight of too many stories.
