The Boy with the Bookstore, page 1
Praise for On Location
“A vivid, romantic adventure about identity, equality, and the poignant connection between people and places. Sexy, smart, and pure escapist—I want to live in a Sarah Smith novel!”
—New York Times bestselling author Samantha Young
“On Location is a sassy, sexy read with a swoon-worthy hero and a smart heroine who have a sizzling-hot chemistry that is off the charts! Set against a picturesque national park backdrop, this fun, flirty, enemies-to-lovers romance is a wickedly wonderful ride!”
—Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of Paris Is Always a Good Idea
“On Location gave me a much-needed escape to gorgeous Utah with a lovely cast of characters, and I knew I was in the most capable hands! Sarah Smith knows how to write steadfast heroines, swoony heroes, a love story to root for, and the best kissing scenes.”
—Tif Marcelo, USA Today bestselling author of In a Book Club Far Away
“Smith sensitively showcases how Alia’s Filipino heritage affects her personal and professional goals. Fun, sexy, and uplifting, this is sure to appeal to lovers of light romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Full of soft moments and searing heat, On Location transports you to a space in the middle of breathtaking natural wonders where you, too, will fall in love. Sarah Smith delivers a funny, poignant novel where happily ever after is only the beginning of the adventure. This is the travel love story we all deserve!”
—Denise Williams, author of How to Fail at Flirting
Praise for Simmer Down
“This food truck romance serves up an enemies-to-lovers story that is spicy, salty, and sweet. Delicious!”
—Mia Hopkins, author of Trashed
“While the enemies-to-lovers romance is irresistible, it’s the sincere, well-developed characters and heart-tugging family dynamics that make this fulfilling love story stand out. This is a winner.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A powerhouse romance with a perfect mélange of spicy banter, lush scenery, and passion!”
—Charish Reid, author of (Trust) Falling for You
“This book had everything: a heart-melting hero, laugh-out-loud moments, family drama, and delicious food, all wrapped up in a lush, tropical setting. Fresh, fun, and utterly addictive.”
—Sara Desai, author of The Dating Plan
Praise for Faker
“A fresh, sweet, and funny story about how the people we think we know can surprise us in the sexiest way. Full of swoony kisses and heartfelt honesty, Faker is like a warm, reassuring hug.”
—Lyssa Kay Adams, author of Isn’t It Bromantic?
“I loved every page of Smith’s wonderful debut! The romance was sweet and heartwarming, but it was Smith’s ability to write a main character who embraces all of her power that had me cheering throughout this book.”
—Alexa Martin, author of Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes
“Written with insight and humor, Sarah Smith’s Faker is a charming, feminist, and diverse romance that will have you hooked until the very last page.”
—Sonya Lalli, author of A Holly Jolly Diwali
Titles by Sarah Echavarre Smith
Faker
Simmer Down
On Location
The Boy with the Bookstore
BERKLEY ROMANCE
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2022 by Sarah Smith
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and Berkley Romance with B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Smith, Sarah, 1985- author.
Title: The boy with the bookstore / Sarah Echavarre Smith.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley Romance, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022009305 (print) | LCCN 2022009306 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593545980 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593545997 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3569.M5379758 B69 2022 (print) | LCC PS3569.M5379758 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022009305
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022009306
First Edition: September 2022
Cover design and art by Victoria Chu
Title page illustration by AIWD/Shutterstock.com
Adapted for ebook by Molly Jeszke
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Praise for Sarah Echavarre Smith
Titles by Sarah Echavarre Smith
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For all the Joelles and Maxes out there.
You deserve all the happily ever afters in the world.
Chapter 1
Joelle
When Max Boyson walks into my bakery, I almost drop the tray of croissants I’m holding and try not to pass out.
It’s a daily occurrence for me. Because this is what I have to contend with when he strolls in at seven forty-five on the dot: His six-foot-two frame clad in a black leather jacket, worn jeans covering his long, muscular legs. He wears a knit beanie over that mass of light brown hair, and there’s a healthy amount of scruff sheeting along a jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds.
He’s a cross between a ridiculously handsome Instagram model and a biker.
And that smile. Oh my freaking god, that smile. Always a half smile. Always the right corner of his mouth quirked up like he’s hiding a secret that he’s dying to tell. Always deliciously wolfish.
But it’s not just his looks. It’s his whole demeanor. The way he walks into a room, posture straight, gaze focused and unbothered at the same time. He looms large but is also aware of himself. As physically imposing as he is, he’s careful not to crowd anyone when he steps into the tiny space of my bakery. He holds the door for people when he walks in and out. And he always moves out of the way when there’s a line. It’s an easy confidence he possesses—something I’ve always ached to have.
He is the epitome of everything I find attractive in a man. And that pinnacle of hotness walks into my world every single morning, setting fire to my skin and turning my brain to mush.
I wish I weren’t such an utter cliché. But I am.
I am the physical representation of the phrase “mousy shy girl.” If you were to search that on Google Images, my photo would be the first to pop up.
I’ve got it all: wild hair that hits all the way to the middle of my back and hides my face when it’s not pulled into a ponytail, thick-rimmed glasses, a penchant for biting my lip and stammering when I’m nervous, and the inability to maintain prolonged eye contact when a handsome guy looks my way.
That’s pretty much what I’ve done every other day when Max walks in here and places his usual order of an ube latte—iced in the spring and summer, hot in the fall and winter—and a plain croissant, just before he strolls next door and opens his bookshop, Stacked, which occupies the store space next to mine in this brick building we both lease in the Jade District of Portland, Oregon.
It all happens like some slow-motion scene out of a movie. Max half smiles. I instantly forget that I often have a store full of customers to help. He makes casual conversation, asking me about the morning rush, what new pastries I’ve got on the menu that day, if the pigeons in the dumpster behind our building have dive-bombed me when I took out the trash. And like the unsophisticated and painfully awkward human that I am, I burn hot all across my cheeks and neck and chest. I giggle, then stammer my way through the conversation, all the while trying not to stare unblinkingly at him so I don’t come off like a psycho.
And then he leaves, my heart resumes a steady beat, and I will myself to act
It’s all very embarrassing, the fact that I devolve into a flustered teen every time I’m in his presence.
But not today.
No, no, no. Today marks something new. Today, I’m going to actually do something about my crush on Max Boyson that kicked off when he started renting out the space next to me a year and a half ago. I’m going to ask him out.
It’s a daunting prospect for sure. We’re technically work acquaintances and if he shoots me down, that’s going to be awkward as hell. But during our daily chats, I could swear I feel a flirty edge from him. Like, he’s pulling back from obviously flirting with me because he doesn’t want to come off like a creep who’s hitting on the woman who works next door to him. And I definitely appreciate that.
Or maybe he’s just being a cordial neighbor.
I deflate the slightest bit, then immediately straighten back up. No. None of that disparaging talk. I’ve done that enough my whole life. It’s time to go against my play-it-safe personality and do something bold for a change.
Setting down the tray of croissants, I grip the edge of the metal countertop and flash a quick smile at Max when he strolls to the end of the line. I’m hyperfocused as I quickly transfer half of the croissants to the nearby display case before helping the next customer, who’s a few people ahead of him. As I ring up orders and hand out pastries, I will myself to keep cool.
Breathe in for one, two, three . . . breathe out for four, five, six . . .
Yes, I’m aware of just how pathetic it is that I, a thirty-two-year-old woman, have to coach myself through a calming breathing exercise in preparation to ask a guy out. But it’s no surprise given my dating history. I’ve only ever asked a guy out face-to-face once in my life . . . in high school. Yeah, I’ve asked men out since then, but it’s only been a handful of times via dating app DMs. That’s completely different from making direct eye contact with the ruggedly handsome and tatted-up bookstore owner I’ve been lusting after and saying the words “Hey, you wanna grab a drink sometime?”
Just the thought sends my nerves crackling, like a match falling into a box of fireworks. I swallow back the somersault in my stomach and greet the next customer, quietly counting down as Max inches closer and closer.
And then, finally, he’s at the front of the line, just a foot away from me. I look past him and see that no one else is in line. That means I won’t have to ask him out in front of an audience. Thank god.
Slowly, silently, I breathe in and take it as a sign that this moment was meant to happen. I muster every ounce of nerve I have and make eye contact with him while smiling.
“Joelle. Hey.”
I will my eyes not to flutter. I love it when he says my name in that soft, low tone that’s practically a growl.
“Hey, Max. How’s your morning going?” If I could, I would high-five myself right now. My voice isn’t one bit squeaky, like I assumed it would be. I sound cool and calm, not at all like the nerve-racked nerd that I actually am.
He tilts his head as he looks down at me, almost like he’s intrigued. And there it is. That crooked half smile.
“Pretty damn good now that I’ve got your incredible coffee and pastries to power me through the day.”
I bite back a humongous grin as I turn away to quickly prep his ube latte—hot, since it’s almost the end of May and we haven’t yet hit warm temperatures here in Stumptown.
“How’s Pumpkin doing?”
I smile to myself at how almost every morning he comes in here he asks about my pet hamster, who I bring with me to work every day.
“She’s good. Chilling on my desk right above the space heater, so she’s pretty much in heaven.”
His low chuckle makes me grin even wider.
I pluck a fresh croissant from the display case, tuck it into a paper wrapper, and slide both over the counter to him.
“How are Muffin and Doughnut?” I ask, trying my hardest not to squeal at the oh-so-cute names he picked out for his rescue pit bull mix and tuxedo cat. I would have never guessed that a guy who looks like a stereotypical bad boy would opt for such sweet pet names. But it’s yet another endearing quality that lands in the column of “things that make Max Boyson insanely hot.”
He thanks me as he hands over his credit card and I swipe it through the card reader. As he reaches his arm out, I get a glimpse of the black ink that peeks out from his jacket sleeve. It’s a hint of that elaborate sleeve tattoo on his right arm, an intriguing mix of cursive script, several clusters of skulls, massive feather wings, and a stack of books.
I blink and recall just how delicious his tattoo looks when he’s wearing a T-shirt or a tank top or a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up along his forearms . . .
I swallow and focus back on his face as he speaks.
“They’re good. Doughnut is still picking on Muffin most days. He’s been stealing that new bed I bought her almost every night.”
“Aww, really? Poor Muffin.”
“It’s hilarious to see a fourteen-pound house cat bully a seventy-pound pit bull. It’s like neither of them are aware of their sizes.”
I glance up at the door, thankful that no customers have walked in yet so that I’d have to stop our conversation and help them. Our chitchat is easy and pleasant, the perfect segue into my big ask. The nerves inside me slowly dissipate and I’m feeling surprisingly light.
Now to wait for the right moment to actually ask him out.
He sips his latte, complimenting the yummy nutty-vanilla flavor of the ube before taking a giant bite of his croissant. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he moans, and I nearly choke. I’m one thousand percent certain that I’ve never heard a sexier sound in my life.
I whirl back around to the baking tray and start blindly stacking more croissants into the display case instead of fainting at the mere sound of Max eating.
“Christ, is that good.” He frowns at the croissant like he can’t believe the taste of it.
I laugh. “You say that almost every morning.”
He shrugs and tugs at his beanie. “Best croissant in Portland, hands down. My death row meal would be a pile of these babies, no question.”
I burst into giggles, which makes Max laugh between bites.
“That’s a bit morbid,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
His smile doesn’t budge. “It’s true. Best way to go out, death by carbs.”
I cover my mouth, I’m laughing so hard.
He peers around the front space of my bakery, which holds a half-dozen small tables. All of them are full with customers chowing down on their own carb-laden goodies.
“So tell me.” He leans over the counter, the expression on his face taking on a conspiratorial edge. “What’s your death row meal?”
I gaze up at him, relishing how he towers over me since he’s nearly ten inches taller. The heat from his body skims over me, and I have to look down for a moment.
“Um, well. I haven’t given it much thought.”
He wags his eyebrow at me before he sips his latte. “Come on. Play with me a bit.”
This time that flutter hits straight at the center of my chest. Okay, that is unquestionably a flirty comment. Yay!
When Max first moved in next door and started dropping by and showering me in half smiles and pleasant conversation, I was giddy. But when I saw him acting the same way around my mom, auntie, and apong, I felt decidedly less special. Clearly that’s just his personality—gotta charm the neighbors. We share a tiny brick building, after all.
But that eyebrow wag he’s blessed me with just now combined with the growled delivery of “play with me a bit” is a game changer. It’s the green flag I need to boost the last reserves of my confidence to ask him out.
“This is going to sound weird, but hear me out: a homemade, fresh-from-the-oven baguette with roasted bone marrow.”
He frowns like he’s unsure of what I’ve just said, but the look in his eyes remains playful. “Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that.”
I shrug, and pull on the strap of my apron. “I’m full of surprises.”
That earns me a full-on grin.
