The Boy with the Bookstore

by Sarah Echavarre Smith

But it’s not just his looks. It’s his whole demeanor.

He is the epitome of everything I find attractive in a man. And that pinnacle of hotness walks into my world every single morning, setting fire to my skin and turning my brain to mush.

I am the physical representation of the phrase “mousy shy girl.”

It’s all very embarrassing, the fact that I devolve into a flustered teen every time I’m in his presence. But not today.

“Not only are you gorgeous, you’re the most talented baker in all of Portland. And you’re kind, sweet, loyal, and selfless. You put your dreams on hold to help your family. I’m lucky to know you, Joelle Prima. Never, ever, ever talk yourself down.”

There’s only one thing I love more than the smell of fresh-baked bread and that’s the smell of books.

Inside I’m cheering. Max Boyson thinks I’m really. Damn. Cute.

“I’d be happy to listen to you talk about tonguing and licking and sucking again. If you wanted.” “Screw talking. What if I just do it?” I cup my hand over my mouth the moment I finish speaking. Holy crap.

“You don’t have to apologize for things that you didn’t do, Joelle.”

God, I’m so, so pathetic. I spent a year and a half crushing hard on a guy who, after one makeout session, discarded me faster than stale chewing gum.

No more tears for a guy who’s not one bit worth it. I’ve been through worse. Way, way worse. I survived. I thrived. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do when next week we start sharing that tiny work space.

What I really wanted to do was take her out for a drink tonight and hear that melodic laugh, see that gorgeous smile. I wanted to run my fingers through that wild mass of black hair again, taste her lips again,

I’ve always had a crush on Joelle. From the minute I met her when I opened Stacked next door to her bakery, I couldn’t get her out of my head.

I’m a sucker for a sexy and sweet girl in glasses, and that’s exactly what she is.

“What would you two do? If you had a shot with your dream girl and you fucked it up, how would you make it right?”

“Don’t be sorry, Joelle. These furry little bastards own our hearts. We can’t help but cry over them when they give us a reason to.”

please don’t talk to me like I’m an infant who doesn’t understand the situation we’re in.

“You know, I am so sick of books written by wanky dead white guys a million years ago still being thought of as sacred, when in reality they’re boring as hell to read.”

“Then it’s really not much of a loss. The world does not need more copies of dead white dudes’ books. Pumpkin did everyone a favor.”

I hate how expecting to meet a decent man is seen as a fantasy,” Whitney says. “Like, is it too much to ask for a sweet, thoughtful, respectful, well-groomed, and honest guy?”

“Willing to say ‘I love you,’ no matter if you’re blissfully happy or fighting like cats and dogs . . . and mean it just the same.”

God, I hate being a woman sometimes. Having to tiptoe around the space where I work—a place I should feel safe and welcome—just because there are men nearby who act like cavemen is a special kind of infuriating.

But Joelle isn’t a grumpy asshole like me. She’s an angel

But I want to say something. I want to make it clear just how much I admire her. I want her to know in this moment, no matter how messed up things are right now, that’s she’s an incredible human being.

That’s the cost of living life, sweetie, Dad’s always said. There’s always something to pay for, and it’s always more expensive than you think.

I’ve spent more than half my life enduring harassment, and when it happened in front of other people, no one has ever intervened before. Not once.

“I was just being decent. Decency shouldn’t be thanked. It should be baseline.”

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a woman and have to deal with that bullshit day after day. How demoralizing and even terrifying it must feel to have men repeatedly violate your sense of security.

She’s so goddamn cute. And sexy. And stunning. And every other word that exists to describe just how amazing a person can look.

I’m here for you. Those four simple words probably shouldn’t have felt like such instant comfort, like some sort of phantom hug. But they did.

But Joelle doesn’t do “nice.” Nice is too passive for what she is, which is a genuinely sweet and kind and thoughtful person—one of the best I know.

“Because it takes longer to make an ube latte than a regular black coffee. And when I stood in line the first time I came into your bakery, I noticed how you chatted with customers if their drink took a bit of time to make, and I, um . . . well, I thought you were really pretty and sweet, and I wanted a reason to talk to you for longer than it would take for you to pour a black coffee.”

“Here you are, this insanely handsome guy who looks like a bad-boy Instagram model with your tattoos and your leather jacket and your beanie, and it kind of made me nervous to be around you sometimes.”

Shy, introverted women like me don’t nab hotties like Max. We sit quietly in the corner and watch as everyone around us pairs off. And then if we get lucky—or we get drunk or desperate enough to approach some random guy or DM him—we score a date that maybe sometimes goes somewhere for a while. But then it ends. Eventually. It always does. And then we’re left to quietly go back to our corner.

“You really have no idea what you are, do you?”

Those glasses that you think made you look nerdy? If they’re nerdy, then nerdy is so incredibly hot.

Even if you don’t realize it, you come off so sure of yourself. It’s the hottest thing ever.”

If anyone were to ever see us together and had a hard time believing that we’re a couple, it’s not because of you. It’s because of me. Because most days I look like a moody biker punk who woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and you look like a sweet, beautiful angel.

They wouldn’t buy that a woman like you would ever care for someone like me.” The way his voice dips at the end, the way the fire in his eyes dies down as he admonishes himself sends an unfamiliar squeeze to my chest. Part of that is the shock of hearing him praise me so highly. I never knew he thought any of that about me. No one has ever made me feel so confident, so wanted in less than three minutes. And to hear it from a guy who I considered so far out of my league for so long is even more mind-blowing. “But I’d be the luckiest guy in the world if you did.”

“Let’s get naked.” A low laugh rumbles from his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s beautiful. You took a hurtful insult and turned it into your strength. That’s admirable.”

I want you to know that you’re not alone. As long as I’m around—as long as you want me around—I’m here for you. Always.”

Both my breath and my heart go wild. This woman. God, this woman. I’ve never, ever felt like this before. Just seeing her, touching her, smelling her skin, turns me on. And at the same time I feel comfortable enough to tell her about my messed-up past and family history.

“When I was younger, it was my dream to have my own bookshop where I could always feel at home. And I wanted it to be an escape for customers too. That’s part of the reason I started hosting book club. There’s something comforting about seeing all those people convene every month and talk about books. Like, no matter what they’ve got going on in their lives, they can count on book club to be a fun and engaging time to spend with other people who love to read.”

When those perfect pink lips stretch into the biggest grin, I’m soaring.

I’m too blissed out on orgasms from my insanely hot boyfriend to care about anything else.

Max Boyson is my boyfriend. The guy who looks like a sexy bad boy but has the heart of a cinnamon roll and runs the bookstore next to me is my boyfriend.

I catch myself hoping that he’ll look at me like that forever. Forever.

“If I had a family like yours, I would want to be as close as possible to them too.”

I can be myself around Max. I can be honest and real, and it doesn’t change the way he feels about me.