At least that is what my sisters tell me. I don’t care much about appearances though. I would much rather have my mind stimulated with the beauty of words rather than the vanity of society. If I ever find a man who can penetrate my mind, I’ll be smitten. For now, I will have to settle for my book boyfriends. They always know what to do or say.
If only I could turn things around as easily as it happens in the books I find my escape in.
Looking around the store there isn’t much design wise that I can change to draw people in.
The shelving and displays take up most of the room. A small counter takes up a short space holding the cash register, bookmarks, keychains, and small baubles for sale. Not that we sell much of anything these days. Most people have switched to e-readers. I prefer paperbacks myself, but I’m not a paying customer.
I’m on my third re-read of the Outlander series. Jamie is to die for. He is the ult
imate book husband. I lose track of time as I escape my sad reality with the Frasier’s in Scotland. I am so absorbed in my reading I don’t even hear the door chime. I only realize someone else is in the store when my novel is plucked from my grasp.
In shock at my rude interruption, my eyes travel up the length of the intruder’s body. Starting at the feet, my eyes meet with a pair of black riding boots, my pulse quickens as I come to his worn, ripped, faded, denim jeans. Tattooed knuckles grip my book. One finger sticks out with the skull ring that adorns it. A leather vest covers the man’s chest. The name TRIS displayed in bold letters on one of the many patches exhibited on his biker cut, identifies him as Tristian Vandacamp. Tattoos snake up his neck and cover most of his face. Giving him the appearance of a skeleton. His appearance is alarming and intriguing. My hand, out of instinct, reaches up to touch his bone colored flesh.
He reminds me of my favorite character from my youth, Jack The Pumpkin King. I smile briefly, I haven’t read the book or watched the movie in years. My mother used to read the book to me every night or so she said, when I try to remember the years before her illness took over, it all fuzzes into a blur. I guess it hurts too much to remember her the way she was before—beautiful, young, and healthy.
Before my trembling fingers reach his face, he grabs my wrist, stopping me forcefully. My book is lying on the ground at his feet now. What kind of jerk mistreats a book like this anyway? Tristian Vandacamp, that’s who. I shouldn’t be surprised that this tough as nails biker has no manners or respect for literature.
Jerking my hand back from his tight hold, I clear my throat and raise from my spot on the loveseat. I retrieve my discarded book and place it back on the shelf I borrowed it from, trying to reign in my annoyance at his disruption.
I can feel his dark eyes on me, assessing me. “Can I help you Mr. Vandacamp?” My voice comes out hoarse and shaky. I look up meeting his gaze and I have to avert my eyes back to his hands. I take a calming breath studying the bones tattooed over his digits, traveling up his arm. They look so real. He’s like a living dead man.
His hand reaches up, his strong, very alive fingers pinch my chin and tilt my face up, forcing me to stare into the dark abyss held in his eyes. “My father was Mr. I’m Tris.” Dropping his hand, he holds an ink covered hand out for me to shake. I can still feel his touch on my face as if he never let me go.
Letting out a nervous breath I smile feeling giddy and silly. “Isabella,” I return unsure of whether I want to risk touching him. I am afraid the desire to trace my fingers over his tattoos will be too tempting. I can’t help it as my eyes bat, fluttering my lashes. That’s something my sisters would do, not me. This man has a weird effect on me.
Giving up on the handshake he drops his hand to his side, now clenching his fist. “Where’s your old man?” His dark eyes narrow on me, giving me goosebumps.
The way he looks at me makes me feel naked and afraid. I feel as though the depths of his darkness is swallowing me whole.
I clear the lump in my throat. “He will be in tomorrow. He stepped out early.” I look at the clock on the wall. I was reading a lot longer than I realized. I should have closed the store over an hour ago. Papi should be back to drive me home by now.
“You seem nervous,” he presses taking a calculated step toward me, boxing me in-between what I imagine to be his hard body and the counter. “Are you afraid Isabella?”
“Should I be?” I ask my voice coming out in a tight squeak.
“Very,” he answers cold and serious.
I scoot along the edge of the counter moving closer to him rather than further away.
“I think you are terrified of my appearance.” He cocks his head to the side appraising me.
I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman he is used to. My slim figure is hidden beneath my frumpy dress. I wear it more out of comfort than anything. My sisters always dressed so revealing, attracting attention with their bodies. I want to be liked for my mind not my body.
His nose turns up as his eyes travel down my guarded body.
Would he think differently of me, if I was dressed like Ariala, with all my goods hanging out on display?
“You seem to be the one judging appearances,” I observe.
“You looked appalled when your eyes met mine,” he states.
Before I can tell him his appearance doesn’t scare me in the least, and that it was his treatment of my book that set me off, the store line rings, startling me. I jump slightly as it clangs loudly in the quiet room. “I have to take this,” I announce with an apologetic smile.
Turning my back to him, I answer. “Book Nook, Isabella speaking.”
An unknown to me woman squawks on the line, “Mr. Perez has been rushed to the hospital, you need to come quickly.” I nearly drop the phone on the counter at her words.
My face pales as her words sink in. My stomach is twisting in knots and I have the urge to throw up. Sweat beads down my back. I feel dizzy. Vertigo sweeps over me as two strong arms wrap around me, protecting me from knocking my head on the counter.