Growing up in the concrete jungle of bookstores was his only oasis. They provided a place of refuge, a glimmer of reality amidst the overwhelming pretense that surrounded him.
But even that sanctuary was slipping away. Bastion's Corner Bookstore, once a beacon of hope in the ruins of yesteryear, now struggled to stay alive. Its once-bright flame now flickered as a dying ember, a painful reminder of all that was being lost in this soulless city.
He wished he was that sort of person—the type that would shop there, instead of Barnes and Noble—that would pay an extra buck to buy it in person when he could get it faster and cheaper from Amazon. But he wasn't.
Neither was the crowd that was gathering. He couldn't help but notice the designer labels on their clothing - Versace, Gucci, Hermes. Their expensive purses spoke volumes about their priorities and interests. He doubted they had ever stepped foot inside a real bookstore.
They were too consumed by material possessions to appreciate the beauty of literature. They weren't there for the rich history of the building, the carefully crafted coffee, or the nostalgic atmosphere. No, they were there for one sole purpose - Their prurient lust for his new release: Brazen Love, Book Seven in his wildly popular Too Hot for Steam series. The air buzzed with anticipation and excitement; each person eager to snag a signed copy of the highly anticipated novel. As an author, it was both thrilling and daunting to see such a devoted following.
He could feel their eyes on him. Eyes filled with excitement, adoration—even hunger. They weren’t hungry for him though, just for the latest book he was bringing them.
The room was filled with smiles, each one as plastic and brittle as the next. They were using their smiles and idle banter to cover up the cracks in their lives. No one here was truly happy, despite the appearance they tried to maintain. It was a sea of pretense, and he felt suffocated by it.
He'd give anything to know what they truly thought about him. Though it was better to live in blissful ignorance than to face the harsh reality head on.
"Mr. Harper!" The words spilled from her lips, breathless and urgent, heels clacking sharply against the floor as she closed the distance between them. "Thank goodness you're here. We couldn't reach you on the phone. We were scared you’d bailed on us."
She stopped too close, the faint scent of her perfume—floral and musky, with a sharp undercurrent—reaching him before her words fully registered. Her black dress clung to her like a second skin, the sleek, business-like cut unable to hide the deliberate way it framed her curves. The deep crimson of her lips stretched into a wide smile, the kind meant to soothe, though it hovered just short of genuine.
Jack’s eyes flickered over her, not missing the careful details. Her hair, the shade of sun-bleached wheat, was styled with such precision it seemed not a strand dared to fall out of place. Makeup lay thick on her face, meticulously applied to conceal every hint of imperfection, every sign of something raw beneath. Her posture was tense, her movements precise, as though any flaw might crack the surface.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
And yet, he saw the faint lines beneath the concealer, the hollows hidden under the layers of foundation. She had tried so hard to craft an image, to polish herself into something flawless, but beneath the perfect red lips and sharp perfume, something simpler lingered. He caught a glimpse of the truth, the woman she might be when the mask came off—ordinary, perhaps, even plain.
But he wasn’t here to see her truth. His mind, always searching for the next story, began to spin her into something else. A muse, a character—someone who would fall fast, consumed by passion and raw desire. The details of who she really was melted into the background, swept aside by the force of his imagination. Already, a new protagonist was beginning to take shape in his thoughts, inspired by the woman standing too close, her perfume clinging to the air between them.
His mind wandered deeper, weaving scenes of lust and longing. His hero’s thoughts mirrored his own, wondering how her breath would hitch in the heat of the moment, her voice husky, words broken with desire. He pictured those long legs, now hidden beneath the taut fabric of her dress, curling around his protagonist’s waist, pulling him closer, their bodies tangled in the kind of embrace that leaves little room for restraint. The imagined scent of her skin mingled with the rain still clinging to him, making the fantasy all the more vivid, as if he could already feel the warmth of her lips ghosting over his. The line between fiction and reality blurred, and he let it. This was where stories were born.
The vivid scene formed so quickly that his fingers itched to reach for his phone and start typing. But another part of him, more primal and urgent, wanted to step closer, to see if reality could match the fantasy brewing in his mind.
He struggled to maintain his composure, torn between the writer's instinct to observe and the man's urge to act. Her presence was intoxicating, fuel for both his craft and his most intimate desires. As he stood there, drinking in every detail, he knew this encounter would shape his next bestseller—if he could only keep his own yearnings in check long enough to write it.
But she was still there, looking at him expectantly.
"No..." he said, laughing. "I wouldn't do that to such a fascinating and lovely woman as yourself. I am a man of my word. And you must be…”
"Oh..." He noted the blush developing on her cheeks almost as if she could see the creations in his mind. Her solid front broke for a moment as she averted her gaze. She nervously brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced down at the ground. When she met his eyes again, her smile was genuine and vulnerable. "Thank you. Both for the compliment and for being a man of your word."
He tipped an imaginary hat and put on a charming smile.
She paused, gazing at him, and he returned her stare with equal intensity. He could feel the heat radiating from her body; if he had reached under her thigh-length black dress, he was certain he would find her wet with desire. Her dark eyes matched the intensity of the eternal fire burning within him. In that moment, she would have let him take her without a second thought.
But that wouldn't be any fun. He would rather weave a story out of their encounter, not just fulfill a physical need. It would be crass and unappealing to rush things. They could always pick up where they left off later. "Later" was always the best time.
He shifted his weight, intensifying his gaze, silently asking for her name. "Perhaps we could share a drink together later, Miss..." he waited again for her to fill the pause.
"Gordon!" she said, recovering from her electrified state. "Jane Gordon. I’m the assistant to Mr. Jones." She stretched her hand for a proper introduction.
He took it gingerly and kissed it, holding her gaze. "Nice to meet such an angel at a book event." He maintained a meaningful look—so she could be sure of his intentions. That would keep her mind locked on the feelings she was having. "It must be my lucky day."