Page 2 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

She nodded. “They’re the best.”

How fucking nice for them.

Sweltering humidity wrapped around me as I trudged down the sidewalk in search of some kind of store that had the .

. . necessities . After dinner, Whitney and Wander went back to the hotel we were all staying at for the conference.

Whitney was exhausted, thanks to the little human she was growing, and Wander was on a deadline and needed to get some words written.

Usually, I would have joined her for a writing session, but I was on a break. I had just released a book, and I hadn’t started the next one yet.

Unrest crawled up my skin as I headed down the packed Manhattan sidewalk. A bright red mom and pop convenience store sign caught my eye, and I picked up my pace. It was the kind of place that had a little bit of everything. That would do the trick.

The alcohol aisle greeted me like an old friend as I perused the selection. The store stuck to beer and seltzers, but that was fine by me. I grabbed a pack of pineapple seltzers and beelined for the pharmacy section.

I turned the corner by the pregnancy tests—didn’t need those—and ran smack dab into the hottest chest I had ever seen.

“Shit!” I squeaked as we collided.

The man dropped the bottle of contact solution he was holding, but he quickly picked it up. “Sorry about that.”

“My fault,” I said with an apologetic smile as he adjusted his glasses.

He cracked a smile and stepped to the side so I could pass. “Have a good one.”

I did a double take as he headed to the other side of the store.

His ass was phenomenal. There was something about men in gym shorts and a long-sleeved shirt that did it for me every time.

And the glasses were sexy.

I slipped down the aisle that housed condoms, lube, and pregnancy tests. Scanning the shelves, I found exactly what I wanted.

A vibrator.

It wasn’t anything fancy, but it would do the trick. My old one had died from overuse, and tonight was the night to replace it. Something about seeing my two best friends be blissfully in love with their spouses made me feel extra single.

But hey—I could get myself off better than any partner. Who needed men when I had a battery-operated boyfriend who never let me down?

Best of all, I could put him in a drawer when I was done with him.

I snagged a pack of batteries and headed to the register with my haul.

Closed.

I stared at the sign slapped on the self-checkouts and growled. This is what self-checkouts were for! For buying vibrators and tampons and condoms and hemorrhoid cream!

“Over here,” the elderly cashier called, gesturing to the lone open register. The line stretched eight customers deep.

Great .

“Fancy meeting you here,” the man said as he lined up behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder as I hoisted the items higher into my arms. I wasn’t about to feel shame for buying fruity alcohol and an orgasm-in-a-box. I was taking care of my needs. It was perfectly normal.

“Big night?” he asked.

And just like that, the hunky Clark Kent fantasy was ruined. Screw him and his judgmental amusement.

I turned and gave him an annoyed once-over. “Why ask someone else to do what you can do ten times better and faster yourself?”

He held his hands and the contact solution up in surrender, but the smirk on his mouth didn’t make him look all that sorry. “Just making conversation, cupcake.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Cupcake?”

“The frosting hair.”

A single syllable scoff escaped my mouth. “Wow. Okay.”

We shuffled forward as two customers exited the store, but the silence didn’t last long. “It’s cute on you. Reminds me of those sugar cookies with the buttercream icing and sprinkles.”

I loved those cookies, but Mr. Hot Stranger didn’t get to know that. I didn’t turn around or acknowledge his comment. I just wanted to buy my vibrator in peace.

“But you’re not sweet, are you?” he said. “Maybe a little sweet, but it’s not your top note.” His smile cracked a little wider. “Do you like rosé?”

Okay, that was strange. My hair was the color of the label of my favorite rosé.

“You should try a rosé-arita,” he continued. “Regular margarita with rosé in it. A salt rim is best, but you could do sugar if you like something sweeter.” I could practically hear his smile. “But as we already established, sugar isn’t your thing, is it?”

Either he was a mind reader or he was a stalker. Had he been watching me at the Mexican restaurant? Did he follow me down the sidewalk? I fought the urge to text Whitney to see if I could borrow her scary lady bodyguard.

I was probably overreacting. Or at least I hoped I was.

Thankfully, the line shuffled forward again, leaving one person between me, the cashier, and freedom from this hell.

“You local or passing through?” he asked.

I turned to face him so I could remember what my stalker looked like when I inevitably had to report him to the cops.

“Just here for work. I’m traveling with a large group of people who are expecting me back in five minutes and will be alarmed if I don’t show.

” I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about the half-lie.

He chuckled and took a half step back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come off like a creep. Just trying to make conversation.”

“You should stick with the weather.”

He leaned forward a bit, taking back that half step. “Nice night to meet your future husband.”

I batted my eyelashes. “I have a taser.”

He smirked. “Sounds kinky. You’re really into things that buzz, aren’t you?”

I turned back around as the customer in front of me finished their transaction.

“See, I have this theory that everyone on earth has at least five things in common with any random person. You just have to keep talking until you find them. And then you can talk forever,” he said to my back.

I glanced over my shoulder. “What if one of my five things is that I hate small talk?"

“That’s fine. Wanna get into conspiracies? Insecurities? Things you resent your parents for? Fears and dreams? We can split those seltzers and get right into the deep stuff.”

Finally, it was my turn to check out. I dumped the seltzers, vibrator, and batteries on the conveyor belt and moved up to the card reader.

The silver-haired cashier took one look at my items and raised her eyebrows. “I haven’t tried that kind. Any good?”

I glanced at the conveyor belt as she scanned the batteries first. “The seltzers? They’re pretty good. The pineapple is my favorite, but raspberry is a close second.”

“I meant the vibrator.”

The . . . vibrator? She was asking me about the vibrator?

Hot guy snickered under his breath.

My face turned bright red. “I—uh—haven’t used it. Pretty sure it’s not a dressing room situation where you try before you buy.”

“I was just making conversation,” she groused as she scanned the seltzers with an unamused glare.

What was with everyone wanting to get into conversations with strangers? What happened to ignoring people and letting them go about their lives unbothered?

I sighed and rolled my shoulders to try to ease the tension. This wasn’t me. I usually loved chatting with people in checkout lines. I had been in a mood since the barrage of Whitney and Wander’s happily-ever-after good news.

When the register paused for her to scan my ID, she glanced at the sign that said anyone under forty had to be carded, then looked me up and down. “You're at least forty-two, right?”

“Not for another ten years,” I clipped through gritted teeth.

She narrowed her eyes as she scanned the vibrator and queued the total. “Anti-aging cream is in aisle seven.”

I swiped my card with more force than necessary and snatched my bags.

“Have a good night, cupcake. Nice talking to you,” the hot guy called after me.

I didn’t even turn around.

Fortunately, the walk back to the hotel was short, and the elevator was empty.

After dealing with the chatty Kathys in the checkout line from hell, the last thing I wanted was to be stuck in a box with strangers.

There, the options were to make more small talk or stand in silence and act like the elevator floor was the most fascinating thing on Earth.

The hallway was quiet as I made my way to my room and unlocked the door. I needed a sparkling beverage and an orgasm to turn this night around.

I dumped the bags on the spare bed in the room and pulled out the vibrator box. The tamper-safe seal on the top was pristine, but the bottom of the box was loose. So help me, if someone returned a used vibrator . . .

I opened the box and swore bright and loud.

Because it was filled with fucking rocks.