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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