Unlike globally famous DJs who almost kiss you and then back off like you’re made of glass, or like he just realized you weren’t worth the second glance after all.
Whatever.
I mean, I wasn’t going to marry him.
I’m not marriage material.
Even Eric found me too small-town to marry—and that man sells insurance.
Insurance.
And yet, he still decided I was too rooted.
His words, not mine.
“You’re great, Hil,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was about to deliver a medical diagnosis. “But I need someone who wants more.”
More than what?
A stable business? A community? A bookstore full of stories?
Apparently yes.
So if an insurance salesman thinks I’m too small-town, what the hell would a world-famous DJ think?
Exactly.
Which is why I am absolutely, totally fine.
Mostly.
I tuck a new cowboy romance into the display and step back to admire my work.
Dry Creek Cowboys, huh? Not too shabby.
I tuck the title away to be put on my TBR list.
And life continues.
The little bell above the shop door jingles.
“Welcome to The Book Shop!” I call automatically.
Then I hear them.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Measured.
And for a split second—just one stupid, hopeful second—my heart does that thing.
But it’s probably Mrs. Delaney looking for that new thriller I just restocked.
Or it could be a teenager hunting manga.
I turn around, and I freeze.