CHAPTER FORTY-SIX –
Megan POV
“Chris?” I blurted out in shock as the scruffy, handsome man straightened up from helping gather the scattered pet supplies. “Hey there, Megan.”
His greeting came out low and rumbly as those striking hazel eyes regarded me with an inscrutable gleam.
I couldn’t help gaping at how attractive he looked in that fitted thermal and stylishly tousled hair.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I stammered out, then immediately wanted to kick myself.
Of course, a writer like Chris frequented bookstores!
Rather than point out my ridiculous question, he simply arched one eyebrow higher in amusement. “I could ask you the same thing. Somehow I didn’t peg you as the type to haunt literature dens, Megan Williams.”
My face warmed as I quickly bent to scoop up the paperback that had fallen amongst the pet items. “This? No, you’ve got it wrong! It’s just an errand to grab this for Lilly before they sold out.”
I clutched the book with its lurid cover to my chest, feeling heat flood my cheeks as I essentially admitted to fetching romance novels.
“You know how she is about her… particular reading interests,” I muttered awkwardly.
To my surprise, Chris just threw his head back and laughed – a full-bodied, genuine sound that made my stomach twist unexpectedly.
“Hey, no need to explain or justify!” He assured me through his dimpled grin. “I’m just pleasantly surprised to find you doing errand girl duty for Lilly’s special taste.”
I couldn’t help smirking a bit at his teasing. “Well, what can I say? She’s… persuasive.”
We shared another brief chuckle before a lull settled between us, the bookshop’s folk music the only sound.
Chris cleared his throat and gestured to the book.
“So, uh… that one any good then?” He asked curiously.
I arched an incredulous brow – was he really asking me about the erotic romance novel?
Before I could respond, he seemed to read my skepticism.
“What? I’m allowed to be curious about such… elevated literary fare, aren’t I?” Chris protested innocently.
Quirking my lip, I studied him with new interest.
Was this sarcastic, dashing persona he projected different from his usual self?
“I wouldn’t know since it’s not my guilty pleasure genre,” I shot back.
“But if a trashy love triangle romance keeps Lilly occupied for a few evenings, I’m happy to indulge her, I suppose.”
Chris chuckled again, shaking his head in seeming reluctant admiration at my skewering of Lilly’s taste.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he revealed he was already holding his own copy of the same book tucked against his hip.
“Well, looks like we were both hoping to scratch the same lascivious itch this afternoon,” he proclaimed in mock scandal, brows hiking exaggeratedly.
I gaped at his copy, then back up at his impish grin – stunned that he apparently shared Lilly’s dubious reading tastes. Taking pity on my disbelief, he continued lightly.
“Haven’t you heard? Kemple’s erotic romances are all the rage in certain circles right now. Everyone’s dissecting the social commentary and nuanced themes laced between the, ah, friskier scenes.”
I eyed him askance, trying to tell if he was kidding or genuinely implying those trashy paperbacks had literary value beyond titillation.
“You cannot seriously be saying those mass market bodice-rippers are more than cheap smut,” I sputtered finally.
Chris simply shrugged, that roguish sparkle never dimming as he countered my skepticism.
“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it – isn’t that what the critics say? There’s nuggets of real insight and empowering themes hidden among all the throbbing… appendages, if you look closely.”
My mouth felt open, utterly gobsmacked that he was mounting an impassioned literary defense for what was essentially pornographic pulp “entertainment.”
Was this really the same old frat-boy Chris poking fun at me somehow?
The self-assured way he seemed to analyze the merits of glorified smut left me reeling.
Sensing my stunned silence, Chris’ expression turned more sincere and intent as he searched my face.
“For instance, did you know Kemple is seen as a revolutionary voice challenging society’s outdated notions about female sexuality head-on? Using this erotic medium to expose and subvert cultural misogyny in nuanced ways?”
His resonant voice seemed to vibrate through me as Chris leaned subtly closer, gaze burning into mine.
“Think about it – by depicting explicit female pleasure and desire so frankly in such sumptuous prose, Kemple gives women a platform to unapologetically own their carnality, rather than traditional norms of suppression or shame. Pretty subversive if you read between the lines, Megs.”
I swallowed hard, feeling an odd mix of dazzled yet off-kilter by this unexpectedly intellectual side of my typically artless ghostwriter on full display.
The raw passion in his tone and that probing stare as he expounded on such seemingly lowbrow smut… it was bizarrely captivating, revealing novel depths I hadn’t realized existed within Chris.
No wonder the camera seemed so enamored with each rugged plane and angle of those striking features – with layered intensity like this roiling just under the surface, I could envision legions of admirers spellbound by his every nuanced expression or timbral murmur.
I found myself quietly regretting not delving deeper into exploring Chris’ personal literary tastes before we began my memoir in earnest.
Perhaps I’d dismissed the diverse layers and contradictions comprising this seemingly straightforward man too hastily.
Just as I moved to beg him to elaborate further on these revelatory insights, Chris seemed to suddenly become aware of our surroundings again.
Clearing his throat roughly, he reverted to a casual, almost sheepish front as he shifted a pace back from our close proximity – a subtle distance I was surprised to feel bereft at.
“But hey, what do I know?” He declared in an artificially casual rasp, one shoulder hitching in a shrug. “I’m just some meathead ex-jock who gets his cheap thrills ogling subpar prose between autographing copies for housewives to swoon over.”
The abrupt self-deprecation and retreat into bucolic pretense wrongfooted me after his searing eloquence just moments before.
Chris met my bemused silence with an inscrutable glance before pasting on a disarming smile and gesturing vaguely towards the store counter, clearly shifting subjects.
“Anyway, I’ll let you grab whatever else Lilly needs and get out of your hair. I’m gonna go snag a copy of that new Baudelaire translation and maybe a Sagan film retrospective while I’m here.”
He sucked in a breath and turned away, already heading into the densely packed aisles between shelves.
“But it was cool running into you! Even under such scandalous circumstances,” Chris tossed over his shoulder with a wink, before his lean figure disappeared from view entirely.
For several beats, I simply stood frozen, attempting to process the dizzying hairpin turns our interaction had taken in the span of a few minutes.
“Oh, a cat person? I didn’t know that about you.” He looked over at Smoky.
“Oh, yeah, not really, I just adopted Smoky today. Aren’t they adorable?”
Chris bends down to play with Smoky.
“Unlike me you seem familiar with cats.” The words slipped from my mouth.
Well not my concern!
“Yes, ilove cats. Had them growing up.” He replied calmly. He gently pets Smoky, who purrs.
“That’s nice. No wonder Smoky took a liking to you.” I smiled.
“Animals can sense good people.” He smiles at Megan.
“Well, I should let you go. Thanks for being so kind to Smoky.”
“No problem at all. Cats are the best.”
“Have a good day.”
“You too, Megan. Bye Smoky!” He waved at the cat and heads out.
One second, Chris was dazzling me with articulate literary fervor while championing a niche erotic genre I’d have sworn was beneath his station.
Yet the next, he’d reverted to that carefully nonchalant, dismissive shrugging off of his own evaluations, as though jolted back to maintaining a deliberately cultivated persona.
And now, he’s cat fans.
Well, there’s a lot I don’t know about him.
Blinking rapidly, my gaze landed on the dim alcove where Chris’ silhouette was just visible browsing shelves.
Even from here, there was no mistaking the sense of rampant, coiled masculinity emanating from his lean, sinewy frame no matter how nonchalantly he pretended to be preoccupied with random books.
I furrowed my brow faintly, perplexed. What was his game here exactly?