A Journey to My Life

I nearly walk past the store, not because I’m not paying attention, but because it is so unimposing. Not plain but understated. The name “Food for Thought” is scrolled in elegant lettering on the window, but other than that it looks like any other building on the block. There are a few bookstands in the windows displaying various genres. Peering past them into the store itself, I notice it looks like an eatery with tables of one or two patrons and the occasional group. Some appear to be looking at menus. Others are reading (or discussing what they are reading). Behind the tables and all the way to the back of the store stretch rows of tall shelves filled with books. A handful of people are milling around perusing the shelves. I am intrigued.

I enter and notice a long counter to my left with boxed sets, collector’s editions, and special archives behind it. A dark-haired man of maybe thirty runs the cash register at the front. He looks like the bookworm type—dark-rimmed glasses, flannel shirt, carpenter khakis, scruffy chin. I think, Maybe he’s trying to grow a goatee?

I glance over at the tables and booths to my right. A few spots are open, but I am more interested in checking out the selection this trip.

The rows of bookshelves are separated down the middle of the store by a wide walkway. A couple of beanbag chairs and a small children’s table are at the back of the store where two little girls are engrossed in fairytale books. I turn to the shelves on the right side first. Not looking for romance right now. No erotic romance. No teen paranormal romance. No westerns. No memoirs. I wander up and down the rows until I find a section that interests me: mystery. I’m in the mood for a good, fully engrossing whodunit to take me far away from my bland reality.

A warm, friendly voice drifts over and catches my attention. I glance distractedly over at the tables. One of the employees is giving his spiel on how everything works to a new patron. I half-listen so as to know exactly what those menu papers are for and why people sit there to be waited on as if ordering food. Unlike the cashier at the front counter, this guy certainly does not look like a literary nerd. He doesn’t really look like he belongs in a bookstore, let alone working in one. His sandy-blond hair is short on the sides but long on top, so his wavy locks keep falling into his eyes. Occasionally, he runs his hand through it, as if by habit, to clear his forehead. He looks athletic and tall. Though I am barely paying attention to his words, he speaks to the patron in a genuine tone, like he actually likes working in a bookstore. Like he might actually enjoy helping people find a great book to read.

As he looks up in my direction, I realize too late that I’m staring. I can’t look away, though. His features are chiseled, and his eyes are as warm and friendly as his voice. He smiles widely at me. A nice smile . . .

I get hold of myself and quickly turn to the books on the shelf in front of me. I feel my cheeks burning hot. Surely, they are bright crimson—how embarrassing. I force myself to pay attention to the titles on the spines and covers, but a nagging voice in the back of my head tells me to look for him again: Just see what he’s doing. I ignore it and pick up a book that looks interesting. I flip it over to read the teaser on the back cover.

Only a moment passes, and I feel someone next to me. I don’t dare look. What if it’s him? But that’s stupid, there are lots of people in the store. It could be anybody. I steal a furtive glance to the side. It is him! My stomach flip-flops. I glance again. He’s looking at the shelf a mere foot away from me. I feel an odd electricity charging the air all around; I can’t believe he’s so close, running his index finger along the book spines.

“Ah. Here it is,” he says to himself as he extracts a book. Then he turns to me, and I hastily look back at the book in my hand, hoping he hasn’t caught me looking at him.

“I wouldn’t recommend that one,” he offers after a brief moment. “It’s too easy to figure out the ending. Not enough suspense.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Have you read Carson Ripley’s new thriller?”

I blink, surprised. He’s talking to me! Then I focus on his eyes—beautiful blue eyes, like the clear unending sky on a summer day. Standing this close, he isn’t as tall as I’d thought, not much taller than I am. His shoulders are broad. His lips are full. He has a light dusting of freckles on his nose. Then, embarrassed, I realize he’s still waiting for me to answer his question.

“Um, no.” I blush again and glance down, hoping to hide it. He must think I’m an idiot.

But he smiles that wide smile at me, showing his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “You’ll like it. It’s a real page-turner. It’s up toward the front of the store with the new releases. Let me know if you need help finding it.”

He pauses a beat, then raises the book in his hand and aims it toward the tables behind me as if reminding himself what direction he needs to go. He walks past, brushing my shoulder as he goes. All the electricity in the air centers sharply on that spot as if transferring from him to me and leaves my shoulder tingling. I stop breathing for a second, shocked at the exchange, wondering what it means. I recover my senses and spin around to watch him stride away. I let my gaze follow him—no fear of him catching me watching with his back toward me. My eyes slide from his broad shoulders, down his dark shirt just tight enough for me to make out his shoulder blades underneath it and come to an abrupt halt at his bottom. A sexy one, I must say, in khakis that fit snuggly enough for me to feel myself about to drool down my chin.