I feel like a cartoon character. I’m pretty sure my jaw hits the floor. Out of everything I thought he was going to say, CrossFit wasn’t even in the top one thousand!

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’m pretending you aren’t here anymore.”

His deep, throaty chuckles echo in the small room as he straightens—his form is actually very good, but I can never admit that now—and I squeeze by him to get the final box. My arm grazes his as I pass by, and for some reason my body ignores that he’s an author who does CrossFit and lights up in previously dead places.

“What?” He walks to the door and pushes it open, keeping a close eye on me as I approach. I’m convinced he can read every filthy thought in my mind. “I was told CrossFit is very cool.”

“I refuse to engage with you anymore. Won’t do it.” As a yoga stan, I cannot condone the phenomenon that is CrossFit. I took one class and promptly left when the others finished before me and didn’t leave, but instead stood around me and clapped as I struggled through burpees and dead lifts. It was a nightmare. Give me my yoga mat and a semblance of peace and quiet over that nonsense any day. “But thanks for holding the door open.”

My manners beat out my initial desire to ice him out. I’m not sure why, but for a reason I refuse to investigate, I think a part of me wants him to like me. Even if he is absolutely the exact opposite of everything that I enjoy in life.

Weird.

The ache in my back distracts me from the fact that I’m going to look like a sweaty mess trekking across the store and into the cozy nook where he can sign all bazillion of his books.

“There we go.” I mean to set his books down with a gentle flourish, but unfortunately for me and the poor arm muscles I try my hardest to never use, I just drop it. “Shit.” I hiss the elegant word in front of the world-acclaimed author. Super professional. “I mean shoot! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drop your books or swear.”

Gran must be rolling in her grave.

“Not a problem.” His lips twitch at the corners as he sets his box down on the ground all slow and controlled. Show-off. “There might not be tons of it in my books, but my language isn’t always pristine.”

I guess that’s the author way of telling me he says fuck too.

I smile at him, not really knowing how to respond, and awkward silence settles around us.

“Why don’t I help you unpack these books.” It’s not a question so I don’t wait for an answer before moving to a box and cracking it open.