The Boy with the Bookstore - Softcover

Smith, Sarah Echavarre

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593545982 ISBN 13: 9780593545980

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

When a baker meets the bookshop owner of her dreams, and he turns into her nemesis, they’ll both have to read between the lines to avoid a career-ending recipe for disaster.

Max Boyson looks good...from a distance. But up close and personal, the tattooed hottie Joelle Prima has been crushing on for the past year and half has turned into the prime example of why you shouldn’t judge a book by his delectable cover.
 
When she first learned about the massive renovation to the building they share, Joelle imagined that temporarily combining her Filipino bakery with Max’s neighboring bookstore would be the perfect opening chapter to their happily ever after. In her fantasies they fed each other bibingka and pandesal while discussing Jane Austen and cooing over her pet hamster, Pumpkin. Reality, however...is quite different. Her gallant prince turned out to be a stubborn toad who snaps at her in front of customers, dries his wet clothes in her oven, and helps himself to the yummy pastries in her display case without asking.
 
But beneath Max’s grumpy glares, Joelle senses a rising heat—and a softening heart. And when they discover the real reason for the renovation, they’ll have to put both their business senses and their feelings for each other to the test.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sarah Echavarre Smith is a copywriter turned author who wants to make the world a lovelier place, one kissing story at a time. Her love of romance began when she was eight and she discovered her auntie's stash of romance novels. She's been hooked ever since. When she's not writing, you can find her hiking, eating chocolate, and perfecting her lumpia recipe. She lives in Bend, Oregon, with her husband and her adorable cat, Salem.

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Chapter 1

Joelle

When Max Boyson walks into my bakery, I almost drop the tray of croissants I'm holding and try not to pass out.

It's a daily occurrence for me. Because this is what I have to contend with when he strolls in at seven forty-five on the dot: His six-foot-two frame clad in a black leather jacket, worn jeans covering his long, muscular legs. He wears a knit beanie over that mass of light brown hair, and there's a healthy amount of scruff sheeting along a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds.

He's a cross between a ridiculously handsome Instagram model and a biker.

And that smile. Oh my freaking god, that smile. Always a half smile. Always the right corner of his mouth quirked up like he's hiding a secret that he's dying to tell. Always deliciously wolfish.

But it's not just his looks. It's his whole demeanor. The way he walks into a room, posture straight, gaze focused and unbothered at the same time. He looms large but is also aware of himself. As physically imposing as he is, he's careful not to crowd anyone when he steps into the tiny space of my bakery. He holds the door for people when he walks in and out. And he always moves out of the way when there's a line. It's an easy confidence he possesses-something I've always ached to have.

He is the epitome of everything I find attractive in a man. And that pinnacle of hotness walks into my world every single morning, setting fire to my skin and turning my brain to mush.

I wish I weren't such an utter cliché. But I am.

I am the physical representation of the phrase "mousy shy girl." If you were to search that on Google Images, my photo would be the first to pop up.

I've got it all: wild hair that hits all the way to the middle of my back and hides my face when it's not pulled into a ponytail, thick-rimmed glasses, a penchant for biting my lip and stammering when I'm nervous, and the inability to maintain prolonged eye contact when a handsome guy looks my way.

That's pretty much what I've done every other day when Max walks in here and places his usual order of an ube latte-iced in the spring and summer, hot in the fall and winter-and a plain croissant, just before he strolls next door and opens his bookshop, Stacked, which occupies the store space next to mine in this brick building we both lease in the Jade District of Portland, Oregon.

It all happens like some slow-motion scene out of a movie. Max half smiles. I instantly forget that I often have a store full of customers to help. He makes casual conversation, asking me about the morning rush, what new pastries I've got on the menu that day, if the pigeons in the dumpster behind our building have dive-bombed me when I took out the trash. And like the unsophisticated and painfully awkward human that I am, I burn hot all across my cheeks and neck and chest. I giggle, then stammer my way through the conversation, all the while trying not to stare unblinkingly at him so I don't come off like a psycho.

And then he leaves, my heart resumes a steady beat, and I will myself to act like a normal human being again.

It's all very embarrassing, the fact that I devolve into a flustered teen every time I'm in his presence.

But not today.

No, no, no. Today marks something new. Today, I'm going to actually do something about my crush on Max Boyson that kicked off when he started renting out the space next to me a year and a half ago. I'm going to ask him out.

It's a daunting prospect for sure. We're technically work acquaintances and if he shoots me down, that's going to be awkward as hell. But during our daily chats, I could swear I feel a flirty edge from him. Like, he's pulling back from obviously flirting with me because he doesn't want to come off like a creep who's hitting on the woman who works next door to him. And I definitely appreciate that.

Or maybe he's just being a cordial neighbor.

I deflate the slightest bit, then immediately straighten back up. No. None of that disparaging talk. I've done that enough my whole life. It's time to go against my play-it-safe personality and do something bold for a change.

Setting down the tray of croissants, I grip the edge of the metal countertop and flash a quick smile at Max when he strolls to the end of the line. I'm hyperfocused as I quickly transfer half of the croissants to the nearby display case before helping the next customer, who's a few people ahead of him. As I ring up orders and hand out pastries, I will myself to keep cool.

Breathe in for one, two, three . . . breathe out for four, five, six . . .

Yes, I'm aware of just how pathetic it is that I, a thirty-two-year-old woman, have to coach myself through a calming breathing exercise in preparation to ask a guy out. But it's no surprise given my dating history. I've only ever asked a guy out face-to-face once in my life . . . in high school. Yeah, I've asked men out since then, but it's only been a handful of times via dating app DMs. That's completely different from making direct eye contact with the ruggedly handsome and tatted-up bookstore owner I've been lusting after and saying the words "Hey, you wanna grab a drink sometime?"

Just the thought sends my nerves crackling, like a match falling into a box of fireworks. I swallow back the somersault in my stomach and greet the next customer, quietly counting down as Max inches closer and closer.

And then, finally, he's at the front of the line, just a foot away from me. I look past him and see that no one else is in line. That means I won't have to ask him out in front of an audience. Thank god.

Slowly, silently, I breathe in and take it as a sign that this moment was meant to happen. I muster every ounce of nerve I have and make eye contact with him while smiling.

"Joelle. Hey."

I will my eyes not to flutter. I love it when he says my name in that soft, low tone that's practically a growl.

"Hey, Max. How's your morning going?" If I could, I would high-five myself right now. My voice isn't one bit squeaky, like I assumed it would be. I sound cool and calm, not at all like the nerve-racked nerd that I actually am.

He tilts his head as he looks down at me, almost like he's intrigued. And there it is. That crooked half smile.

"Pretty damn good now that I've got your incredible coffee and pastries to power me through the day."

I bite back a humongous grin as I turn away to quickly prep his ube latte-hot, since it's almost the end of May and we haven't yet hit warm temperatures here in Stumptown.

"How's Pumpkin doing?"

I smile to myself at how almost every morning he comes in here he asks about my pet hamster, who I bring with me to work every day.

"She's good. Chilling on my desk right above the space heater, so she's pretty much in heaven."

His low chuckle makes me grin even wider.

I pluck a fresh croissant from the display case, tuck it into a paper wrapper, and slide both over the counter to him.

"How are Muffin and Doughnut?" I ask, trying my hardest not to squeal at the oh-so-cute names he picked out for his rescue pit bull mix and tuxedo cat. I would have never guessed that a guy who looks like a stereotypical bad boy would opt for such sweet pet names. But it's yet another endearing quality that lands in the column of "things that make Max Boyson insanely hot."

He thanks me as he hands over his credit card and I swipe it through the card reader. As he reaches his arm out, I get a glimpse of the black ink that peeks out from his jacket sleeve. It's a hint of that elaborate sleeve tattoo on his right arm, an intriguing mix of cursive script, several clusters of skulls, massive feather wings, and a stack of books.

I blink and recall just how delicious his tattoo looks...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593545982
• ISBN 13: 9780593545980
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Auflage: 1
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland