Or a turning point.
Fuck.
Chapter Eight
Hilary
It’s been a week.
Seven full days.
Not that I’m counting.
Hammonton, apparently, has not recovered.
Because when an internationally famous DJ shows up at a baby shower and then buys a literal mansion on the edge of town?
The rumor mill does not simply spin.
It combusts.
“Is he staying?”
“Are he and Nate working on something?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Does he smell as good as he looks?”
Okay, that last one was Bella.
And yes.
He does.
I stood close enough to him twice to get a good lungful of his scent—a mixture of some spicy cologne, soap, and just him.
But that’s irrelevant.
Completely irrelevant.
Because I’m not thinking about David Mars.
I am not replaying the almost-kiss at the sink.
And I sure as shit am not remembering the way his hand felt at my waist or the way he looked at me like I was something rare.
Nope.
Not doing that.
I’m working. Shelving new arrivals in Romance. Making small talk with my regulars.
All safe things.
Predictable.
Structured.