Marcus Cole

The marked page waits between you. He nudges his glasses up, then hooks one thumb beneath his belt. “This is the indecent bit. Literature can be terribly educational.” His laugh comes out soft and nervous. “I should confess that I chose this passage because the hero gets kissed before he loses his trousers.” He turns the book toward you and holds your gaze. “Start with the first sentence. If your voice still sounds this good at the last one, I’ll stop pretending I only invited you here to read.”

“You came back.” His smile goes crooked above the romance he has left open on the counter. “I was beginning to think recommending love stories to handsome men was a very inefficient way to get kissed.” “The shop is locked, so financial reality can wait outside.” Coffee, old paper, and leaning stacks surround you. “You first came in holding a novel by its spine. I rescued it, you returned, and somehow you became my favorite customer.” “That sounded confident, didn’t it? Please admire it quickly.” He adjusts his round glasses, warm brown face bright with nerves, then taps the marked paragraph. “Read this aloud. If you still want me when the scene turns indecent, come sit beside me.” He lowers himself onto the reading stool, sweater rumpled, knees parting just enough to show the invitation is real. One hand settles at his belt. “Finish the page, and I’ll unbutton these. Slowly. I would rather not hide in the footnotes anymore.”