building.
“Actually,” he said, blushing lightly as he reached for the battered backpack hanging by one strap from a single, broad shoulder. “I’m on a book tour.”
She chuckled, instantly regretting it when his face fell. “Sorry,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s just… you look so young. How have you written a book already?”
He shrugged. “It’s more like a travel diary, really. Every year I find a sponsor to send me on some surf trip and my publisher pays me to write about it.”
“Wow,” she said, impressed. “Sounds like a great gig.”
“I’m blessed,” he said simply, and she couldn’t have put it any better herself. He slid a copy of his latest book, a glossy trade paperback, gently battered around the edges. She marveled at the cover: a super sexy shot of the kid standing in front of her, shirtless, in wet baggies that left little to the imagination. He was standing on a beach, exotic and lush; a board was in his hand, hair longer in the picture than it was at the moment, stringier and wet from a recent session in the surf.
The book was called “Hangin’ in Hawaii.”
“By Derek Chambers,” said the byline.
He caught her reading and said, “That’s me. I’m Derek.”
She chuckled. “I gathered that.”
“Oh,” he said. She started to slide it back across the counter and he pressed long, thin fingers, coppery from the sun, near hers on the cover. “That’s for you,” he said.
“Oh,” she gushed, drawing it back. “Thanks, Derek.”
He shrugged, blushing some more. “It’s the least I could do for all the free stuff you’ve given me.”
She smiled and flipped through the pages, covertly glancing at the back cover where it had another photo, with way too many clothes, and listed Derek’s age as twenty-two. She sighed, though she had no idea why, to realize she was a full decade older than he was.
“If… if you like it,” he stammered, suddenly shy. “Maybe… maybe you can give it to your manager, or even the store’s owner, and she might let me do a book reading while I’m in town.”
Sage chuckled. “You’re looking at her.”
“You own this place?” he asked with the same “no way” tone she probably had when she heard he was an author. “But you’re so young.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Derek,” she chuckled.
He peered at her more closely; those hazel eyes inquisitive, his full lips doubtful. “No, I mean it; you don’t look like you could own a bookstore.”
“What do I look like I should be doing?”
He shrugged. “I dunno, modeling bikinis?”
“Okay, okay,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s a thin line between flattery and B.S., kid.”
“I’m for real.”
Sage chuckled, dismissively, but the fact was… she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a bikini, let alone told she’d look good in one. Between ordering for the store and stocking and managing and scheduling and inventory and marketing and more ordering and more stocking and more inventory, Sage hardly had time to breathe, let alone sunbathe.
“A reading, huh?” she asked, to pull the focus away from herself. “That… that actually sounds interesting.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, as if regretting the suggestion.
“No, really,” she insisted.
“Actually,” he said, blushing lightly as he reached for the battered backpack hanging by one strap from a single, broad shoulder. “I’m on a book tour.”
She chuckled, instantly regretting it when his face fell. “Sorry,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s just… you look so young. How have you written a book already?”
He shrugged. “It’s more like a travel diary, really. Every year I find a sponsor to send me on some surf trip and my publisher pays me to write about it.”
“Wow,” she said, impressed. “Sounds like a great gig.”
“I’m blessed,” he said simply, and she couldn’t have put it any better herself. He slid a copy of his latest book, a glossy trade paperback, gently battered around the edges. She marveled at the cover: a super sexy shot of the kid standing in front of her, shirtless, in wet baggies that left little to the imagination. He was standing on a beach, exotic and lush; a board was in his hand, hair longer in the picture than it was at the moment, stringier and wet from a recent session in the surf.
The book was called “Hangin’ in Hawaii.”
“By Derek Chambers,” said the byline.
He caught her reading and said, “That’s me. I’m Derek.”
She chuckled. “I gathered that.”
“Oh,” he said. She started to slide it back across the counter and he pressed long, thin fingers, coppery from the sun, near hers on the cover. “That’s for you,” he said.
“Oh,” she gushed, drawing it back. “Thanks, Derek.”
He shrugged, blushing some more. “It’s the least I could do for all the free stuff you’ve given me.”
She smiled and flipped through the pages, covertly glancing at the back cover where it had another photo, with way too many clothes, and listed Derek’s age as twenty-two. She sighed, though she had no idea why, to realize she was a full decade older than he was.
“If… if you like it,” he stammered, suddenly shy. “Maybe… maybe you can give it to your manager, or even the store’s owner, and she might let me do a book reading while I’m in town.”
Sage chuckled. “You’re looking at her.”
“You own this place?” he asked with the same “no way” tone she probably had when she heard he was an author. “But you’re so young.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Derek,” she chuckled.
He peered at her more closely; those hazel eyes inquisitive, his full lips doubtful. “No, I mean it; you don’t look like you could own a bookstore.”
“What do I look like I should be doing?”
He shrugged. “I dunno, modeling bikinis?”
“Okay, okay,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s a thin line between flattery and B.S., kid.”
“I’m for real.”
Sage chuckled, dismissively, but the fact was… she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a bikini, let alone told she’d look good in one. Between ordering for the store and stocking and managing and scheduling and inventory and marketing and more ordering and more stocking and more inventory, Sage hardly had time to breathe, let alone sunbathe.
“A reading, huh?” she asked, to pull the focus away from herself. “That… that actually sounds interesting.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, as if regretting the suggestion.
“No, really,” she insisted.
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