Count

1. I Discuss Poe with a Handsome Stranger

The bookstore on the corner of 5th and Ivy in London had the kind of timeless atmosphere that made me feel as if a romance novel plot could begin at any moment. It was quaint, secluded, and mysterious—a gem that had seduced me with its coffee shop and impressive collection of first editions.

One particular corner housed books with faded leather covers and thick pages that looked and smelled like a bibliophile's wet dream. I liked to sit cross-legged on the dusty floor, holding the old books and turning their pages reverently where no one would see me. Here, I could breathe and simply exist in the quiet.

The spell was broken when the owner, the one blemish on the store's otherwise perfect aura, poked his head around a shelf and scowled, doing nothing to hide his displeasure at catching me there. Again. He knew from experience that I wasn't going to buy any of the beautiful, expensive tomes. "If you so much as bend a corner of a page, you're out of here," he said. "And you have to buy the book, too."

"Got it," I replied, cheerily holding up two thumbs. He slunk away, and I went back to reading.

A bell chimed, signaling that someone was entering the shop. I pictured the large WELCOME sign fluttering as it resumed its normal position. The newcomer's footsteps were silent on the carpet, so I didn't know he was approaching until he rounded the corner a few feet in front of me.

My first impression of him was a pair of slim Oxford shoes. I followed the crisp line of his pants up... and up. Damn, he was tall. But then my gaze alighted on his face, and I nearly had the breath stolen from my lungs. He had the most gorgeous face I had ever seen on a human being. But the most startling thing about his appearance wasn't the immaculate clothing, or the height, or the razor-sharp jawline: it was his eyes. They were like twin coals, smoldering and dangerous.

I blinked and they lost their magical glow—just uncommonly beautiful brown eyes in an uncommonly beautiful face.

My presence had caught him off guard. He paused and looked me up and down, startled. "Excuse me," he said, then turned and examined the nearest shelf. He had a hint of an accent: something from a romance language, though I couldn't pin it down any more than that. His gloved fingers slid along a row of bindings, finally halting on a particular book and extracting it.

I rose to my feet; there was simply no room in the aisle for me to sit while another person browsed.

Who was this stranger who had barged into my quiet evening? I rarely saw others venture into my corner, but this man moved with intention like he had known what he would find here even before entering the shop.

My anxiety advised me to slip away and avoid the awkward interaction I was contemplating, but something—the bookstore's mystique, his good looks—made me take a deep breath and plunge forward.

"I'm Inari," I introduced myself, holding out my hand. A moment passed before he took it.

"Sergio."

The book he was holding was so worn that I could barely make out the red words embossed on the cover. "Vampyres: Fact and Myth," I read. "Researching your kind?"

His head whipped around and his eyes locked onto mine.

In appeasement, I raised the palm that wasn't keeping a firm hold on my book. "I kid! I kid. Because your clothes are dark and you are...ah...attractive. Sorry. It was a lame attempt at a joke." Well, this was going swimmingly. In my head, I facepalmed.

His expression faded from concern to amusement.

I cleared my throat and tried to salvage the situation. "So what is it really for? The book, I mean."