Times Square(9)

Don't expect anything, I tell myself as I open the door to the Book Bar. You're here for your book club, not a date. If he shows he shows. If he doesn't he doesn't. You don't need him to show in order to have a great night.

There's a long bar just inside the door. Behind it is a cross between a bookshelf and a wine rack, alternating shelves of the books being featured this month and the wine being featured—they do a wine-of-the-month club here as well.

I don't see Max anywhere.

I wave at Martha—she's one of the owners and always here on Fridays—before I weave my way through the store towards the back, skirting the seating areas as I go. A line of bookshelves wall off the space where the book club meets, hiding it from the front of the store while creating a bit of privacy and keeping the noise down. Just off center there's a break in the bookcases, creating a doorway to get through. I take one last glance around the store for Max before I head through, reminding myself that I'm a few minutes early and I barely know the guy. He's probably got better things to do.

Or not.

Because he's here.

I bite my lip to hide the grin threatening to overtake my entire face as I observe him. He's sitting on the couch facing the doorway but he hasn't seen me walk in, his attention focused on the book in his hand. His legs are crossed, one foot on the opposite knee. One hand is holding the book and the other rubs lightly at his forehead as he reads.

Is there anything sexier than a man absorbed in a book? Not to this self-confessed book nerd there isn't. He's wearing jeans—a different pair than he had on earlier. These are darker and paired with a casual button-down in light blue, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows. His dark hair looks styled. I say that because it's not damp like it was yesterday or tousled like he'd run his hands through it when I saw him earlier today.

I want to rip his clothes off.

He flips a page as I watch him and his eyebrows rise at whatever is on the page. It's so cute. I wonder what he's reading? Wait. Oh, shit.

"You're reading the book," I blurt out.

He looks up, his face breaking into a smile when he sees me. "Of course I'm reading the book. I'm already on chapter eight."

"You didn't need to read the book," I mumble.

"You told me to read the book," he says as he stands. He's got a smirk on his face and he points at me as he says it.

"I think what I said was that it was odd to attend a book club meeting for a book you hadn't read. I didn't specifically tell you to read it."

"Well, at least now I know why you're so fixated on threesomes."

"Oh, God." I cover my eyes with my hand for a second before moving my fingers. "I'm not fixated. I'm not into that. I mean fictionally, yes, I'm into it. Really, really into it." He laughs and I drop my hand to my side and shrug. "But not really, not in reality," I add then trail off before meeting his eyes.

"Got it. Just a fantasy. You're not trying to recruit me into something kinky." He winks as he stands, picking up flowers I hadn't noticed lying beside him on the sofa and moving around the coffee table to stop in front of me. "I brought you this," he says, holding it out. "You didn't have one earlier."

I look down and take the flowers, a simple trio of pale pink peonies and a couple sprigs of eucalyptus. The stems are wrapped together with a jute twine. It's a tiny bridal bouquet—and possibly the sweetest gesture a man's ever made for me. He couldn't have bought these at a corner bodega on the way either, they're too specific. He found a florist to make a last-minute tiny bridal bouquet on a Friday afternoon in the height of wedding season in New York City. All to surprise a woman he barely knows.

"Thank you," I say softly, taking the flowers from him. I raise them to my nose, using them to hide the smile on my face.

"You're welcome," he replies and one of those damn dimples makes an appearance. "But don't use them to hide that smile of yours. It's captivating."

I drop the flowers down a few inches, the petals brushing against the exposed skin above my dress, and smile, twisting my lips after a second and laughing. "Thank you again," I say, glancing down at the flowers and back to him.

"I'll get us drinks," he says, gesturing towards the front. "What do you like?"

I'm tempted to say ‘whatever you like’ but I don't think he'd take that as an answer, so I ask for a Riesling then sit in the seat he vacated and pick up the paperback he left behind. I need a reminder about what happened within the first eight chapters so I flip it open to take a quick peek.

A lot happened.

He's turned down the corners on all the best—or worst, depending on how you look at it—parts. I'm turned on remembering those scenes, thinking about him reading those scenes.