Page 4 of This Time Around

My stomach twists in knots. Is this really what he thinks of me?

I can’t listen to this shit anymore. I stand up, throw some money down on the table and deliberately flip him off as I walk past his table and head out the door.

Looks like I didn’t wait quite long enough to leave my room. Fucking prick!

One Month Later

“Nothing’s fine, I’m torn

I’m all out of faith, this is how I feel”

-Natalie Imbruglia

Blake

One month has passed, and the sting of rejection from Cash still hasn’t faded. The shame I felt in myself for not taking the time to be true to what I want in my life is still haunting me.

I hear echoes of his words in the restaurant more often than I’d like to admit. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s got a great feel. She looks good, but that only gets you so far. She was just kind of underwhelming, ya know?” I have done a lot of soul, searching over these last few weeks, and I’ve realized if I want to attract a man who’s genuinely worth my time and investment, I need to invest in myself first. This can’t happen if I stick with one-night-stands and never truly get to know the other person outside of the bedroom. Maybe Ana was right: “If you give them all the goods up front, what do they have to look forward to?” I need to invest in myself too and do things I enjoy. Rediscover me. Spend some time working on me, working on things important to me.

Deciding to carry out my newfound mission, I stop at a bookstore around the corner from the bar on my way to work. If I am going to take a break from men for a while, I will need a few good spicy romance books to help me pass the time.

And a new electric friend. I’ll make a pit stop there on the way home from work. I wish there was a place where you could buy both.

As I step into the cozy, dimly lit bookstore, I’m immediately overtaken by a wave of nostalgia. The charm of the place sweeps over me once again. The shelves are a patchwork of mismatched wood and age-worn paint. It makes the space feel lived-in, loved. The scent of old paper and books fills the air; a comforting aroma wraps around me like a warm hug, easing a longing I didn’t fully realize I had. This is my dream. If I could somehow combine my love for books and mixology, I’d be the happiest woman alive.

Drawn by a burst of vibrant colors nearby, I make my way to a small table in the middle of the aisle. The romance section is sprawled out across several tables, with books displayed like treasures. Their covers are a mix of intricate designs, rich reds, deep blues, and golden accents, and all of them seem to shimmer in the soft light. They picked the perfect books to decorate this display. The artistry of each cover beckons me, promising tales of love and adventure.

I pause, taking it all in, letting my fingers graze the spines of the books as I consider each one. I decide to spend some time here before venturing to explore the more hidden gems on the shelves.

Reading is something I cherish, it’s my escape from reality when the world around me gets too heavy. I read a lot when Ana was in the hospital. However, as busy as I am, it is hard for me to find time to really get lost in the pages, so picking a book is something I truly take time in. I don’t just read the back cover; I reflect more deeply when considering my choices. The dedication and the prologue, if there is one, are a must. These sections offer insights into the book’s soul, revealing hints about its heart and structure.

The prologue, particularly crucial to me, is my first real taste of the book’s tone and promise. I love one where it captivates me quickly. I need to be drawn in right from the start, to justify carving out precious time for reading. DNFing a book is not an option for me.

Dedications also hold a special place in my heart. They’re like hidden treasures right at the front of the book, personal-intimate, reflecting the author’s sentiment. Spending a moment appreciating these small but meaningful pieces feels like a respectful nod to the writer’s journey.

After reading both of those, I quickly scan through the pages to gauge the length of the chapters. I have a particular preference for a balanced cadence. Variety in chapter length provides a satisfying ebb and flow, keeping me engaged without feeling overwhelmed or frustrated.

A sleek black book with gold flecks scattered across the cover catches my eye. Picking it up carefully, I flip through the pages as I make my way over to a small leather chair off to the side of the table. I love the intricate patterns decorating the top of each page and can’t help but feel compelled to purchase it purely off sight. I sit down to settle into the dedication when I am startled by a loud voice in my ear and a frantic shift beneath me.

“Shit, umm hello… I’m sitting here,” his voice is laced with a hint of surprise and embarrassment, as if he was the one who sat on a stranger. The man seated in the chair I just blindly plopped onto fumbles beneath me, shuffling his way out from under me to stand up quickly. His face flushes slightly as he tries to regain his composure, a mix of awkwardness and confusion apparent in his bright hazel eyes as they shimmer, as if decorated by the sunlight filtering through the autumn leaves here in Vermont. A sight I would recognize anywhere.

“Lucas Jennings, holy shit!” I laugh, throwing myself back into him and wrapping my arms around his neck.

Pulling me back to get a better look at my face, a huge smile takes over his face. “Blake? What are the odds you would literally fall into my lap after all this time? This must be my lucky fucking day!”

Luke and I go way back, though it’s been a while since we last saw each other, the Christmas after my 21st birthday to be exact. He’s April’s older brother, my best friend from high school. April was a welcomed surprise to her parents after they believed they would only ever have Luke. Being twelve years older than us, he absolutely adores his baby sister, and watching him be the best big brother in the world to her made him hot as hell to me, occupying many of my teenage fantasies.

Now, at 38, he’s only gotten more attractive with age. The years sure have been kind to him, adding a layer of sophistication and charm that weren’t there before. His dark brown hair is now sprinkled with a few flecks of silver, and the scruff once scattered across his face is now a full beard only enhancing his features. Especially those bright hazel eyes. The beard might actually make them shine even more. Luke has always been tall and slender, but I can tell time spent in the gym has filled his 6'2" frame out, but one detail seizing my attention and holding it prisoner are the tattoos covering his right forearm. The way he rolled the sleeves of his sexy button-up amplifies the intricate ink. Shit, he’s hot.

Last I heard from April, he was going through a divorce and was looking to transfer to a hospital closer to home once settled. His ex-wife, in my opinion, was never worthy of his love. An opinion formed by the insane jealousy I felt every time I was in a room with the two of them. I couldn’t even attend their wedding they invited me to. I hated her. They met during his first year of residency and were married less than a year later.

“What are you doing here?” I try to hide the excitement in my voice. If he’s here, that means she’s not his wife anymore.

“I was looking through this book before you interrupted me,” he answers, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Not here, here. Back from Denver, here,” I tease.

“My divorce was finalized a month ago, and I couldn’t stand seeing Noel’s face every day at work, so I transferred here,” he explained, without an ounce of sadness in his voice.