She raises an eyebrow.
“The pay is amazing,” I explain, “but it definitely doesn’t feel like this.” I allow myself the luxury of running my fingers over a smooth aluminum shelf, then opening one of the tiny jars marked sample and rubbing a lemon-scented balm into my hands.
“Gemma, sweetheart,” Aunt Livi calls. “If you were you, where do you think you’d put the book? I’ve looked around and haven’t had any luck.”
Right. The book. The entire reason we’re here. I scan the walls and the cash-out counter, trying to figure out where Other Me may have put it. Everything is so different, I have no clue where to start.
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
My aunt nods, then braces her hands on her hips.
“I guess we divide and conquer. Gems, you take the office, Kiersten the storeroom, and I’ll check out the bathroom.”
Although my store is adorable and quaint, it’s not very big at all. Five solid minutes gives us the confidence to say the book is not here.
“I guess we’ll try your house next,” Aunt Livi suggests.
I nod, but as I do, I catch a flicker of movement outside. Adrenaline floods my veins even before I register the familiar broad shoulders and brown wavy hair of the tall pedestrian crossing the street—heading directly for my front door.
“We need to hide.”
My hulked-up adrenaline-fueled body grabs Aunt Livi by the arm, then dives at Kiersten, bringing the three of us down in a tangle of arms and legs behind the cash counter.
“What the actual fuck, Gems.” Kiersten kicks me until I roll off her. She hauls herself into a seated position next to my aunt, throwing me a dirty look.
“I don’t want him knowing we’re in here,” I shoot back in a fierce whisper.
“Who?”
The answer to her question is a sharp knock on the front door followed by a “Hello, anyone home?” in a very male, very familiar voice.
“Dax is out there.” I gesture wildly at the door. “We had a little bit of a run-in this morning. There’s a strong possibility he thinks I require medical attention.”
Before I can stop her, Kiersten’s on her hands and knees, crawling to the end of the counter.
“Get back here, you jerk,” I whisper-yell. “Don’t let him see you.”
“He’s not going to see me.” She waves me off. “I just want to see what all the drama is about.”
To her benefit, when she peeks around the corner, it’s slow and stealthy. That is, until she whips back around and says in a voice that is definitely not quiet, “Well, helloooooo, Dax. Your hallucination is hot, Gems.”
Heat flushes my face for no good reason. “He’s not hot. He’s Dax.”
“Seriously.” My sister goes in for another look. “He’s hipstery, but not too weird. And great arms. I’ve always been an arm girl.”
“Stop being creepy.” I shove her with my foot, but it does not deter her from stealing another look.
“There is nothing creepy about appreciating,” she counters as she turns back around to face me. “You can see the man’s chest muscles through his T-shirt.”
“So now you’re a chest girl too?”
She shrugs. “I’m simply acknowledging every fine thing your man has got going on. You’ve got to admit, he’s a total babe.”
I did think Dax was attractive the first time we met. We were standing beside each other at a local dive bar called The Prince and Pauper. It was crowded as usual and impossible to get a drink. The bartender slid a Guinness down the bar in our direction, and our hands collided as we both reached for the pint. There may have been tingles.
Dax’s gentlemanly instincts kicked in, and he offered the beer to me. The feminist in me insisted it should go to the more Irish of the two of us, thinking my strawberry-blond hair and English surname gave me the upper hand. Until Dax pushed up the sleeve of his henley, revealing a sleeve of tattoos, including the McGuire family crest. I dink I wen dis one, he said in a perfect Irish accent that riled up the butterflies in my stomach. Kierst isn’t the only Wilde that appreciates a forearm.
But then one of Stuart’s friends spilled a drink down Dax’s back. He went home to change, and by the time he returned, Stuart had me smitten. Dax became an acquaintance I’d run into at parties, then a part of a bigger friend group until we both realized we spent most of our time together, talking only to each other, and decided to cut everyone else out and become ride-or-dies. His Hemsworthiness became a moot point.