Page 9 of The Bodyguard's Bookworm
“They count as dinner if you eat enough cookies.”
“No.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Very stern food opinions.”
“You need real food. Come to dinner with me.”
“I’m eating at my dad’s tonight.” She puts away the last of the napkins, then looks at me with something gentler in her expression. “Sorry.”
“No apology necessary. Family’s important.”
“Yeah.” She leans against the counter. “It is.”
I want to ask about her dad, her family, every part of her life she hasn’t shared with me yet. I also want to keep her here until the rain turns heavier and I can finally find out what her mouth tastes like. Instead, I finish putting the room back together and watch her lock the register.
“Tomorrow is my day off,” she says as she gathers her bag. “The bookstore is closed, so your post is temporarily unavailable.”
“Have breakfast with me.”
Her hand pauses on the strap of her purse. She looks at me for a long beat, and I can see her thinking, weighing me, and weighing whatever this is becoming.
The rain taps softly against the glass. Emi’s smile comes slowly, cautious but real. “Okay. I’d like that.”
Outside, the air is cool and wet, the sidewalk shining under the streetlights. I walk her to her car with my hand hovering near the small of her back, close enough to guide her around a puddle, careful not to touch her unless she wants me to. She unlocks the driver’s door, then turns to face me.
Rain dots her hair and clings to her lashes. She tilts her face up, and my body goes tight with the effort of staying still. Fuck, I could kiss her now. Everything in me wants to pull those luscious curves into me and take the mouth I’ve been thinking about since yesterday morning.
“Goodnight, Connor,” she says gently.
I’m smart enough to read between the lines.
“Goodnight, Emi.”
I stand in the rain and watch her drive away, wanting her more than I thought it was possible to want anyone. Whatever this is, it’s not slowing down.
4
EMI
By the time the check comes, I’ve laughed more over one breakfast than I have in weeks. Connor sits across from me in the corner booth, his shoulders taking up an unreasonable amount of space, coffee mug near one hand, empty plates in front of him. He’s just finished telling me about a corporate client who once insisted on having a full security sweep done for a destination yoga retreat, only to lose her phone in a basket of complimentary towels three minutes after arrival.
“You’re telling me the towels were the real threat,” I say, reaching for the check before he can.
His hand lands over the little black folder at the same time mine does. “Emi.”
“No.” I tug it out from under his palm with a triumphant smile. “You won’t let me pay you for lurking handsomely in my bookstore, so I’m paying for breakfast.”
“Lurking handsomely, huh?”
“Don’t get attached to the adverb. This is still an argument.”
Connor leans back, clearly unhappy with me paying, but there isn’t much he can do when I slide my card into the folder and hand it to the server with my brightest smile. He watches the betrayal happen in silence, then looks back at me.
“I’m paying next time.”
“Next time?” I ask, trying for breezy.
“Yes.”
