28. Devon

Devon

"I am not going in there."

Lola is practically rolling on the ground in laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks at my refusal to enter the store with her. Bookstores are fine, but I draw the line at a bookstore that has a bare-chested man with rippling muscles on display right in the front window.

While I'm appalled at the idea of going inside the bookstore, it's worth the trip just to see how tickled Lola is at the idea of me in a place like that.

"You dragged me out into the middle of nowhere and made me freeze my ass off," she huffs, "so you have to go along with my date idea."

"I told you to dress warm."

"You are such an ass," she says with a laugh, and I swallow when she places her hand on my bicep. Two weeks ago, I had her in my bed, naked under me, and now I'm reduced to savoring these tiny little touches as though I might never get to feel them again.

And I probably won't. According to our contract, we're forbidden from being intimate together. I watch her as she pokes at me, laughing, and wonder if she'd be willing to come back to my apartment again after this whole thing was over. I can't stop thinking about the sex with her and how it was different from anything else I'd ever felt.

"Sorry, you'll have to pick something different," I tell her, shrugging and turning to go but stopping when she speaks again.

"Wow," she says, toeing the ground innocently, "I didn't think you were a coward, Chambers, but I suppose you proved me wrong."

"A coward?" I echo, turning around and raising an eyebrow at her. Logically, I know there's nothing brave about going into a romance bookstore, but now that she's issued the challenge, I feel like I can't walk away.

"Yeah," she says, pressing her lips together and mimicking my shrug. "But it's okay. Since you can't handle it, we can just agree I've won."

"The contest was for the best date," I remind her.

"Yeah, well, even if we walk away now, I've still won because your date was garbage."

I wince, but I know I deserve it. Lola might have had more fun on our fishing trip if I actually told her where we were going. Then, she might have been able to dress appropriately and prepare herself for the cold.

Or skip out on me altogether.

Lola starts to walk past me, but I reach out and put my hands on her shoulders, redirecting her and steering her to the bookstore.

"Well, we're not walking away now," I murmur, watching a flush appear on her neck as she pushes through the front door. A little jingle sounds above us, and then we're immersed in rows and rows of romance literature. "You've issued a challenge. And I never back down from a fight."

***

I'm feeling pretty smug when Lola and I leave the bookshop. In my left hand is a little paper bag with hearts drawn on it, containing my book.

"So, that was the date?" I ask, turning to her once we're back on the sidewalk. "Buy a book?"

"That was the first part of the date," she says, looping her arm through mine and steering me down the sidewalk. "This date is about doing something I enjoy. So, step one is buying a romance book from a local bookstore, and step two is heading to a coffee shop to sit and read together."

"Your idea of a fun date is sitting with me at a table, but neither of us is talking?"

"You can talk every once in a while to say, oh, look at this funny passage, or Lola, would you like a pastry? Or Lola, let me refill your coffee for you."

"Sounds like I have a lot to remember."

"It helps if you write it down," she says, tapping the front of her pink notebook with a joking smile. Without meaning to, I let my gaze travel down from her face and over her chin, across the smooth, pale skin of her neck, and down to her cleavage, which is on full display in her current outfit.

Like always, she looks cute as hell, wearing a little pink dress, all dolled up and coordinated. The thought crosses my mind that if we were really dating, she might want to dress me, might want me to wear matching outfits with her. I'm annoyed with myself that I don't immediately dismiss the notion.

We turn the corner, and Lola pulls me into the coffee shop. She orders a "bouquet" latte, something with a lot of flower flavors like rose and lavender, which sounds disgusting to me. Why would you want your coffee to taste like flowers? But Lola smiles and dances around a little bit after her first sip, and even I must admit a bouquet latte is so on brand for her that it would be weird if she didn't order it.

I order a black coffee, and Lola orders a strawberry rhubarb tart. When we have our food and drinks, we sit at a table near the window, and Lola spends some time taking photos of her tart before digging in. I wait patiently for her to finish, and then she takes a deep breath and claps her hands together.

"Okay," she says, "this is the part where we reveal our books to each other."

"I have to show you what I got?" I ask, glancing skeptically at my bag. If she sees what I picked out, she might call it cheating and make me go right back to the shop.

"Yes," she says, reaching into her bag. "I'll go first."

The book she pulls out is soft pink and has a little cartoon guy on the front—a guy wearing skates, pads, and a jersey.

"What the hell?" I comment, swallowing thickly, my eyes darting to hers. She got a romance book about a hockey player? I wasn't aware romance readers were interested in sports.

"I haven't read this one yet," she states, shifting in her seat so she can cross her legs. My brain is begging me to glance under the table to see the spot where her thighs are pressed together, the hem of her dress riding up her legs.

The idea of her reading a hockey romance is at once ludicrous and also insanely hot. Is this what she does in her free time? Read stories about hockey players falling in love?

"Your turn," she says, pressing the backs of her hands to her cheeks. I wonder if she knows she always does that when she's blushing, and it only draws more attention to the flush on her face.

"Alright," I say, grinning and reaching into the bag. When I reveal my book, I expect her to get mad, cross her arms, and demand I read hers instead, but she laughs.

"Devon."

"What?" I ask, raising my voice to speak over the sound of her giggles. "I thought you would be mad."

I turn my wrist to look at the cover of the book again. Attack of the Blue Ridge Aliens. Seems like a sci-fi adventure—the type of thing I used to read as a kid before I became really into hockey and didn't want my teammates to think I was a dweeb.

"I know you're going to love it," she says, reaching out and touching my arm. We both stare at her hand on my arm for a moment before she pulls it away, clearing her throat and taking another sip of her latte. "Okay," she murmurs, cracking open the cover of her book. "Less talking, more reading."