Wylde (Arizona Vengeance 7)

“Oh… okay,” I murmur, setting the wrapped wine opener on the counter and moving out from behind it. Dude is totally weird. “Let’s see if we can find you something.”

Fifteen minutes later, we have picked out a vase for one lucky couple and a table book of southwestern photography for the other. The man asks me to wrap those as well, which I do quickly before finally moving to ring him up.

“I know this might be coming out of left field,” the man says with a bit of hesitation, “but would you have any interest in joining me as my date to the wedding this weekend? There’s going to be a really great reception after with some awesome barbeque and a band.”

I give him a smile, hoping it’s appropriately polite and regretful. “That’s very sweet of you to offer, but no thank you.”

“Got a boyfriend?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, then immediately curse myself. I should have said yes.

“Married?”

Damn you, truth. I shake my head. “No, but—”

“Then say yes,” he pushes with oozing confidence, leaning on the counter and leveling an impish smile. I have to say, it’s a really great smile, replete with dimples and everything.

“I’m sorry, Ervin—”

Annoyance flashes across his face. “Aaron.”

“Aaron,” I confirm, trying not to laugh. “But… um, well… you’re not my type.”

He blinks in surprise, and I can tell in this moment that no woman ever has told this man that.

“What exactly is your type?” he asks with a frown.

I really don’t have one. I’ve dated a variety of men—a DJ, a sommelier, and a roof inspector just in the last few months. But something about this man has danger bells ringing faintly in the background—not from a safety perspective, but rather he just seems as if he has complication written all over him.

I always listen to my gut, so I pull forth somewhat of a lie, which I know will work based on what little he’s revealed of himself. “I’m actually more into the brainy, nerdy types. You know… the ones who always have their noses buried in a book and can quote Proust on a whim.”

He blinks, clearly not understanding a word I just said. Definitely a jock.

I seem to have shocked him into silence, as he doesn’t say a word as I ring up his purchases. After I punch in the appropriate codes, I scan the tags and tally the total cost with tax. “That will be $179.32.”

Aaron reaches into his side pocket, then pulls out a small clip securing some cash along with a single credit card. I slide it through the reader, then complete the transaction.

It’s as I’m placing his gifts in a bag that he decides to take another stab at a date. “How about a little wager or competition? If I win, then you have to go to the wedding with me.”

He’s persistent, I’ll give him that, and well… I have to admit he has my curiosity all riled up. I tilt my head. “Like what?”

“Well… I used to be a reader,” he says quickly, now leaning on the counter again with both forearms resting there. His eyes are sparkling, filled with challenge. “You know… back in high school and such. How about you give me a well-known quote from your favorite classic and if I can guess what book it’s from, you have to go to the wedding with me this weekend?”

I regard him, wondering if this is some type of trap. But no… he has no interest in books. I can tell by the fact he didn’t bother perusing one shelf in my store that houses all kinds of amazing literature.

He’s taking a shot in the dark, and no matter what quote I give him, he’ll probably blurt out Melville’s Moby Dick or something with a phallic reference.

“Okay,” I muse, gaze traveling up to the ceiling where I ponder a moment all the wonderful classics I love. I dismiss a few he might take an easy guess at—The Call of the Wild, To Kill A Mockingbird, Gulliver’s Travels.

But one comes to mind… it seems fitting in this moment.

I give him a sly smile. “The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.”

Aaron’s face is like a blank art canvas. He doesn’t even try to search his memory as there’s no furrowing of his brow or rubbing at his jaw in consternation.

I drop the receipt into his bag, push it across the counter, and try to keep all traces of smugness out of my expression.

“That’s Salinger,” Aaron says in a neutral tone. “Catcher in the Rye, I believe.”

I’m surprised my jaw doesn’t hit the counter it drops so low in disbelief, and I realize I’ve seriously misjudged this man. I completely characterized him as a rube, an unenlightened individual, and made that judgment based on his appearance and his current lack of time to read.