Preview of The Boy with the Bookstore
Preview of The Boy with the Bookstore by Sarah Echavarre Smith
Chapter 1
Joelle
When Max Boyson walks into my bakery, I almost drop the tray of croissants I’m holding and try not to pass out.
It’s a daily occurrence for me. Because this is what I have to contend with when he strolls in at seven forty-five on the dot: His six-foot-two frame clad in a black leather jacket, worn jeans covering his long, muscular legs. He wears a knit beanie over that mass of light brown hair, and there’s a healthy amount of scruff sheeting along a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds.
He’s a cross between a ridiculously handsome Instagram model and a biker. And that smile. Oh my freaking god, that smile. Always a half smile. Always the right corner of his mouth quirked up like he’s hiding a secret that he’s dying to tell. Always deliciously wolfish.
But it’s not just his looks. It’s his whole demeanor. The way he walks into a room, posture straight, gaze focused and unboth- ered at the same time. He looms large but is also aware of him- self. As physically imposing as he is, he’s careful not to crowd anyone when he steps into the tiny space of my bakery. He holds the door for people when he walks in and out. And he always moves out of the way when there’s a line. It’s an easy confidence he possesses—something I’ve always ached to have.
He is the epitome of everything I find attractive in a man. And that pinnacle of hotness walks into my world every single morning, setting fire to my skin and turning my brain to mush.
I wish I weren’t such an utter cliché. But I am.
I am the physical representation of the phrase “mousy shy girl.” If you were to search that on Google Images, my photo would be the first to pop up.
I’ve got it all: wild hair that hits all the way to the middle of my back and hides my face when it’s not pulled into a ponytail, thick-rimmed glasses, a penchant for biting my lip and stammer- ing when I’m nervous, and the inability to maintain prolonged eye contact when a handsome guy looks my way.
That’s pretty much what I’ve done every other day when Max walks in here and places his usual order of an ube latte—iced in the spring and summer, hot in the fall and winter—and a plain croissant, just before he strolls next door and opens his book- shop, Stacked, which occupies the store space next to mine in this brick building we both lease in the Jade District of Portland, Oregon.
Preview of The Boy with the Bookstore by Sarah Echavarre Smith
