He’s handsome, with a square jaw and close-cropped brown hair. He wears a white dress shirt and a checkered tie, so I guess he’s in banking or law.
Every night he buys a book, drums his fingers on the counter, and smiles before he asks me how I’m doing.
Every night I smile back and say, “Great.”
Fine, I know I’m not like my friend Perri, smooth and cool when handling men. But she’s a cop, and I’m a—well, I’m the good girl in the crew. Virgin till twenty. Serious boyfriend in college. Another serious boyfriend in my mid-twenties. Then David.
That’s it. I’ve been with three guys. I’ve never played the pickup game. I’ve never even been on a dating app. And I’ve never made a move on a customer, even though Mr. Businessman has great taste. Last night he purchased Kristen Hannah’s The Nightingale. The evening before it was Hidden Figures. Each time he asked me if I liked the books. Of course, I told him.
I mean, really.
They’d have to take away my license as a bookstore proprietor if I didn’t adore those works.
Tonight, Mr. Businessman makes his way to the counter, a paperback tucked under his arm. There’s a gray tie knotted on the cover, and I blink. Is that book what I think it is?
“Hey. How are you?” He grins at me a little sheepishly.
“Terrific. How are you?”
“Fantastic.” He sets down the book, taps his finger against the knot, and meets my gaze. “I’ve heard so much about this book, I figured I should probably read it.” He lowers his voice, glances from side to side. “But don’t tell the guys at my office, ’kay?”
I bring my finger to my lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”
He smiles as I ring the purchase up. “Great. I figure it can’t hurt to know what women want these days.”
He’s buying the book to better understand the fairer sex? Okay, I’m down with that, I suppose. “Smart man. A lot of women definitely still like reading this book.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it, then.” He clears his throat and fixes his eyes straight on me. “Do you like it?” The words come out staccato. Like he truly wants to know what I think of Fifty Shades of Grey.
And this is why men make no sense.
Is he asking if I like being tied up? Does he want to know if I enjoyed the story? Is he asking my advice so he knows if it’s a good gift for his girlfriend?
I answer truthfully. “It’s a fun book. I can see why it was so popular.”
My reply earns another smile. “Good to know.”
I tuck the receipt between the pages. “Here you go.”
He doesn’t leave. “So, I’ve noticed you’re here all the time. I trust this is your store?”
“My baby. Opened it five years ago. Love it, especially the book clubs.”
“I like what you do here. It’s more than just books that have people coming in.”
Does he mean me? Or . . . “Well, I do work with book clubs all around the county and set up book and wine events—pairing wine with different books.”
“That’s awesome. Do you like wine?”
“Like a hammer loves a nail,” I say, then I want to smack myself because does that sound like the worst come-on ever?
But he doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s a great wine bar down the street if you ever want to . . .”
I straighten my spine.
Holy smokes. He’s asking me out. The handsome guy is asking me out.
Men do make some sense.
This computes.
But before I can say, Why, yes, I’d love to, I catch a final glimpse of the tie on the cover. Nerves grab hold of my throat. They tighten their grip, strangling words, choking them to silence. What if this guy is like David? What if he wants some version of a woman I don’t know how to play? What if he’s looking for a naughty girl rather than a nice one?
The nice girl in me answers, “Oh, that wine bar is great. You should totally go there.”
I skedaddle to help another customer, nearly tripping over Clare, who gives me an imperious yellow-eyed stare for deigning to go near her.
“I froze. I completely froze. Like that dumb statue.” I gesture to the dude riding the bronze horse as Perri and I walk through the town square later that night.
“That is a seriously dumb statue. Want to topple it later?” she asks as she yanks her auburn hair into a tighter ponytail.
“Yes, let’s deface public property. That’ll help me get over my complete deer-in-the-headlights moment.” I sigh and look at my good friend. “It gets better, right?”
She pats my shoulder. “I want to be totally sympathetic and tell you it’s cool, no worries. But it’s not going to get better unless you take a leap and get back in the game. That guy did a number on you.”
I picture David’s cutting words as he dropped me. “I know. And did I tell you that David is now engaged to the woman he started seeing after me? I can’t even hate him for being a cad. He just didn’t want me. He wanted her. They came into the store a week ago, and she was wearing a big fat ring.”
Perri gives me a green-eyed sideways glance. “Sweetie, I’m not talking about David.”
I stop at the edge of the square, furrowing my brow. “Who are you talking about, then?”
“Phillipe.”
“Phillipe?”
She makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “Phillipe. French guy you dated for four years when he was living here. The sexy winemaker.”
“I know who Phillipe is. I’m just not understanding the comparison.”
“One-position Phillipe. He loved missionary more than anything in the world. Except his grapes.”
I laugh. “Well, yeah. He was absolutement in love with his grapes.”
“More important, Phillipe is kind of all you knew when it came to men. So when David said you were too sweet, it’s only because you don’t know if you like spicy.”
We turn the corner, and I arch a brow. “That’s the reason I froze in my store? Because I don’t know if I like spicy sex?”
She nods. “Phillipe was pure vanilla.”
For four years, Phillipe and I dated. He was wonderful—sweet and kind and a massive fan of being on top. In his defense, he was quite skilled at missionary, and we enjoyed the hell out of our horizontal time together. He reached all the spots he was supposed to reach including those starting with a G. But we never really ventured beyond that comfort zone, and the few times I asked, he never cared to mix it up.
I missed him only a little bit when he returned to Europe a few years ago to take over his family’s vineyard in the Provence region.
“Your theory is I simply don’t know what I might like in bed?” We wind our way toward our favorite bar.
“Exactly. Phillipe vastly preferred one way, and with David, you never had the chance to explore.”
Wow. How did I not realize it before? But her assessment is dead-on. Because of Phillipe I assumed most men liked sex the same way—on top, guy in charge, setting the pace. “I’ve only played it safe,” I say, a little sad.
“You’ve only played it safe because it’s all you’ve experienced. I’m not saying you have to take crazy risks. And there’s nothing wrong with vanilla . . . unless you want chocolate or strawberry. Do you even know if you want chocolate or strawberry?”
I picture the artisan ice cream shop down the street. “Honestly, I kind of like that birthday cake with blueberry flavor at Salt and Straw.”
Perri holds up her hands. “My point exactly. Have you ever had birthday cake with blueberry flavor in bed?”
I blink. “What would that even be?”
“Not missionary, that’s all I know.”
I laugh. “That’s for sure. I tried to get Phillipe to mix it up. One time, I thought I would go all sexy on him. I took the initiative and dressed in come-hither lingerie—a white demi-cup bra and high-cut panties, and I climbed on top of him in bed when he was reading.”
“And what did the missionary man do?”
I snort at the memory. “He said something sexy in French, and I was sure I was finally going to learn what it was like to be thrown down on the bed, to be yanked up on all fours. Hell, to have my ass smacked, and my hair pulled, and my panties ripped off.”
“Uh. Yeah.”
I shake my head as I recall what went down. “Instead, he tossed his book to the side, slid me underneath him, and made love to me, whispering sweet nothings in French the whole time.”
“Boring. But the French dirty talk is a nice touch, so we can’t dock him all the points.”
“True. He deserves a minor commendation for his ability to say swoony things, like je te veux tellement. But being taken would have been better, right?”
“Mais oui.” Perri laughs. “I can absolutely confirm that being taken is often better than being talked to. Give me a strong, silent, tatted-up man on a motorcycle who throws me down on the couch, and all he has to do is grunt, Fuck. Now.”
“A caveman is all you require?”
She shrugs in a way that conveys her answer. “Pretty much.”
I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”
“And what about you? What do you want?”
I let her question marinate, trying to figure out what I’m missing. “I don’t need to be Christian Grey’s plaything, and I don’t want to be tied up in the Red Room. But that’s what stung about David’s parting words. He never gave me the chance.” I flash back to that day at Silver Phoenix Lake, but further too, back to all the days with him. “Though, honestly, I never took the chance either. I never asked for anything else. And I honestly wouldn’t mind finding out if other positions are how they make them out to be in books.”
“I bet Mr. Businessman would have helped you find out.”
I sigh. “Now I’ll never know what Mr. Businessman really wants, or if he likes birthday cake sex.”