The Boy with the Bookstore

by Sarah Echavarre Smith

He’s a cross between a ridiculously handsome Instagram model and a biker.

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.” If you were to search that on Google Images, my photo would be the first to pop up.

“Joelle. Hey.” I will my eyes not to flutter. I love it when he says my name in that soft, low tone that’s practically a growl.

He sips his latte, complimenting the yummy nutty-vanilla flavor of the ube before taking a giant bite of his croissant. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he moans, and I nearly choke. I’m one thousand percent certain that I’ve never heard a sexier sound in my life. I whirl back around to the baking tray and start blindly stacking more croissants into the display case instead of fainting at the mere sound of Max eating.

“Um, well. I haven’t given it much thought.” He wags his eyebrow at me before he sips his latte. “Come on. Play with me a bit.” This time that flutter hits straight at the center of my chest. Okay, that is unquestionably a flirty comment. Yay!

How is this flirting? But okay. I’ll trust you, mare.

I force myself back out to the front of the shop, plaster on a fake yet polite smile, and continue with the workday, all too aware that in addition to mousy shy girl, I am officially the world’s most cringe-y human being.

Agree lmao.

I laugh as I work the slab of ube shortbread dough along the cold metal surface until it’s a light purple smoothish log shape, and then I wrap it in plastic film and stick it into the fridge to chill.

What baker talks about baking like this???

I’m the poster child for casualwear. I’m average height and live in jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. I’m always wearing an apron. And I’m always covered in flour.

When Mom and Dad tearfully recounted to me what happened, I stood there, frozen with disbelief. I didn’t understand everything, but I got the gist of it. Something about an investment that Dad’s work friend told him about . . . something about how promising the presentation sounded . . . something about how over the prior two years, Mom, Dad, Auntie, and Apong diverted the bulk of their retirement and savings to be managed by that friend-of-a-friend financial planner . . . something about impressive returns . . . something about how over the last month the guy stopped communicating . . . something about how he ended up being a fraud. A liar. A thief.

Tell me you know nothing about finance without telling me you know nothing about finance.

I renamed the bakery Lanie’s, after my middle name, and made it my own: a cozy bakery serving Filipino and European baked goods—an homage to my heritage, my family, and my dream.

The phantom flavor of salty, vinegary, fatty pork with the buttery, flaky croissant has my mouth watering.

Pork adobo croissants??? WHAT??? Sacrilege.

“I still can’t believe I went on and on about sucking and licking and tonguing in front of you yesterday morning.” I’m proud of the way I maintain unwavering eye contact with Max as I speak the words that sent me into a humiliation spiral yesterday. But today? Today those words earn me a sexy crooked grin. And right now I feel like a brazen badass for having the guts to say them again.

???

“Yeah. And actually.” He drains the last of the whiskey in his cup, then roughly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “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?”

Can't believe that the bone marrow thing led to their first kiss. I suspect that this "joke" is going to be a recurring thing throughout the book.

I’m the disheveled, curvy, small foil to the tall, perfectly made-up beauties who I’ve seen society hold up as the ultimate standard of beauty. And not once in my life has anyone ever called me stunning. At best, when I put on the right makeup and throw on the right flattering outfit, I look cute and pretty. Sometimes even a little bit sexy if I really go for it. But not stunning. Never, ever stunning.

IMAGINE HOW EXHAUSTING It FEELS TO BE IN THIS WOMAN'S HEAD. All the self-deprecating comments, I'm tired.

“Don’t do that. Please. You are so above and beyond any person I know, any ex I’ve ever had. You care about more important things than your Instagram follower count, how much money you make, what kind of car you drive—all of that bullshit. You care about people. You sacrificed your dream to help your family. Do you know how amazing that is? Do you know what an incredible person that makes you?”

✨ I like you because you're not like other girls ✨

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this with you?” he growls. I moan “No” and push my hips up higher. “A long fucking time.” “Same,” I rasp. “Same, same, same.”

SAME SAME SAME SAME SKSKSKSKSKSKSKKSKSKSK I'm in tears, help

“Yeah, but heavy in the best way. Like a sexy human weighted blanket.”

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

It’s such a simple gesture, but it means so much. I can’t remember the last time I held hands with someone—or the last time such simple skin-to-skin contact made me feel like my heart was going to shatter in the best way.

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.

He’s thirty and lives alone, while I’m two years older and still technically living with my family, even though I’m in a separate apartment.

Hold on, Joelle is 32?????????? How has she survived this long.

“It doesn’t,” he says with conviction in his tone. “If I had a family like yours, I would want to be as close as possible to them too.” His words land like a hug. So many people—so many guys I’ve dated—hear that I still live at home and think it’s so pathetic. But they just don’t get it. My family is all I have. And if I lose them, I lose everything.

It’s giving bare minimum. 😭

“I want you right here, Max.” I gasp into his mouth. “I want them to see. I want to show them I’m yours.”

I realize how we look so very opposite: a tatted-up bookseller clad in leather and the sweetie-pie baker in a puffer jacket and thick-rimmed glasses.

Filed under: author repeatedly reminding readers what the tropes are bc the characters are half-baked (no pun intended) and underdeveloped.