Page 1 of Just For Me
Chapter 1: Kat
Iwalked into the bookstore, just like I did every Friday after work. This, more than anything, symbolized the end of my work week and the beginning of my weekend escape.
“Buon pomeriggio, Bella.” Mr. Cerasino called out his version of ‘good afternoon’ with a wave. “You late today,” he scolded in his thick Italian accent.
“Sorry, Mr. C,” I apologized, glancing down at my wet dress slacks. “Took me longer than usual.” The six block walk from the office building where I worked was usually a nice one, but not today. It had been raining cats and dogs for the better part of two days. As a result, it wasn’t easy to spot the hazards in the uneven sidewalk, covered as they were in puddles. Normally, that wasn’t a problem. I’d walked the same route so many times I knew every bump and crevice like the back of my hand. But when a sleek-looking sedan hit the pooling water at the side of the road, I’d made a quick side-step to avoid being doused, tripped over a crack, and ended up on my backside in a puddle of my own.
“What happened,Bella?” he asked, scurrying out from behind the counter, concern etched in every wrinkle of his olive-skinned face. “Marie!” He called back to his wife without waiting for an answer.
I could feel the heat spreading as embarrassment crept up my neck and into my face. I hated being the center of attention, even that of this nice, grandfatherly man who called me ‘beautiful’ in his native language every time I saw him.
I wasn’t beautiful, not by a longshot, but he was a sweet old man.
“It’s nothing,” I assured him. I pushed up my glasses (a nervous habit of mine), wincing when my swollen wrist protested. “I wasn’t looking where I was going is all.”
Mr. C’s scowl deepened. “You are hurt.Marie!”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, growing really uncomfortable now. I needed to get out of there before Mrs. C saw me. Otherwise, she’d be clucking over me like a mother hen. It was one of the reasons I had my visits timed for when I knew she was busy preparing dinner in the back. Well, that and the fact that sometimeshewas here around dinner time.
“He” was the über handsome, quiet guy who sat in the back corner with his laptop. We’d never spoken, and I’m quite sure he didn’t even know I existed, but there was something about a guy sipping coffee while surrounded by books that I found incredibly sexy.
A quick glance toward the cozy corner showed it to be unoccupied. A small pang of disappointment zinged through me, but I was too preoccupied to give it much thought today, I had something else on my mind.
“Did it come in?” I asked the owner.
His eyes, a deep, dark brown, narrowed. “Si.”
I could barely contain my excitement. Mr. C had confided to me last week that a new shipment of the latest Nick Penn release was scheduled to arrive that morning, just in time for my weekend. The timing couldn’t have been better. IlovedNick Penn. I mean, I really loved hiswriting. He wrote in such a way that it felt like every word was written just for me and me alone. Of course, I’m sure most women felt that way. That’s why Nick Penn had been number one on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists more than once.
“Can I have it?” I prompted, looking pointedly at his empty hands -—his veryemptyhands -—and shifted my weight. I knew he thought it was impatience, and it was, but my knee was aching pretty badly, too, from the twist it had taken in the fall.
“Maybe you should sit down,Bella. I get Marie to make you a nice espresso or a cappuccino.”
“Thanks, but not today. I really just want to get my book and go home.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but thankfully, he shuffled back behind the counter and pulled out a small bag with a little ribbon tied to the handles.
“Is that it?” I asked in a half-whisper of awe. After four very long months of waiting since the last book had come out, I was almost afraid to believe I was so close to having it in my hands.
“Si.”
I reached for my wallet, but Mr. C stopped me. “No charge,Bella. Is on the house.”
“Oh no,” I protested. I couldn’t let him do that. It was sweet, and I knew he was trying to be kind, but I didn’t take anything for free. Ever.
I held out the twenty-five dollars, but he refused to take it. I sighed heavily, and pretended to put the money back in my purse, but secretly palmed it instead. As soon as I hadthe preciousin my hand, I was going to slap those bills on the counter and make a run (hobble) for it.
“Thank you.”
“Nick Penn, he gonna be here tomorrow. You be here too, yes?”
“I’ll try,” I lied. There was no way on God’s green earth I was going to come back for the signing. I might love Nick Penn, but I already knew what would happen. The line, filled with adoring fans, would probably wrap around the block. I’d wait for hours and then when it came to be my turn to meet him, I’d be a basket case. He’d look right past me, mumble a “thanks for coming” as he scribbled his name inside the cover (callously breaking my fragile heart in the process), and then it would be over.
No thanks.
I preferred to keep Nick Penn in my fantasies, where he was the personification of the golden hearted, alpha male heroes he crafted in his books. You might call that pathetic. I called it the perfect relationship. For me, anyway. To say I’m socially awkward is a vast understatement, and life experiences have proven that I do far better with fictional people than real ones.
It’s not that I don’t like people; it just takes me a long time to get comfortable with someone, and my innate introversive tendencies made that difficult.
