Upon entering the bookstore Tate immediately noticed two things that brought a warm smile to his damp face: a stack of Bones to Wishes on what looked to be a circular, wooden end table from the fifties; and the blond-haired, emerald-eyed handsome man behind the register area.
Tate picked up a hardback copy of Riley’s latest work, having every intention of purchasing the read, and he studied the book retailer behind the register. Tate placed the man’s five-foot-eleven frame at 170 pounds and thirty-five years old. Although the man didn’t have a chest like a superhero, he did sport some muscle in his persimmon-colored T-shirt, which clung rather handsomely, and tightly, to his lined abs and medium-size pecs.
Tate nodded a hello, being polite.
The bookseller shared his pearly whites in a c
