“Let me go find those books.” I infuse so much peppiness into my voice, it sounds like I’ve sucked helium. I step out of his reach and try to ignore the way his hand falls back to his side before I turn and damn near sprint to the stockroom.

I slam the door shut behind me and lean on it, grateful to be alone for a minute.

“Fuck,” I hiss into the dark, quiet room, the thousands of pages stacked around me absorbing my words.

I might not love to read—okay, fine, I hate it—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find an odd comfort in the smell of a book. Maybe some of it is because of the familiarity of it, but nothing calms my frazzled nerves more than taking inventory back here. The weight and feel of a book in my hand, the crisp pages beneath my fingertips, the bright and colorful covers that are all so similar, yet so different. It’s almost hypnotizing.

And it’s the exact place I need to be after Jasper Williams almost put me under whatever hot-guy spell he’s wielding.

“Get your shit together, Young,” I scold myself. Now is not the time for whatever the fuck that was out there. There will never be a moment for that.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment before pushing off the door to go in search of the abundance of Jasper’s books that Mona moved, or—more accurately—hid.

I know the Dirty Birds say they’re trying to help me, but part of me is convinced they’re secret sadists. Nothing else could explain all the shit they put me through. Including inviting the world’s hottest author to the Book Nook.

“Okay! I found them!” I don’t know how long it’s been since I left—fine, ran away from—him, but I do know I’m out of breath and the hair at the nape of my neck has started to curl up when I drop one box of his books on the floor next to him. “Mona put them all in boxes and in the back of the storage room for some reason I’ll never understand. There are still two more, but you can start signing while I grab the other ones.”

Instead of thanking me or complimenting my strength and pulling out the feather pen I’ve convinced myself he carries with him at all times, he unfolds his much-too-tall, much-too-muscular body out of the rocking chair and closes the small space between us.

“Why don’t I help you grab the rest?” he asks, the stupid timbre of his voice doing stupid things to my stupid body. “Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?”

Teamwork makes the dream work? This guy, who is an award-winning writer of words, just said that?