South Of The Skyway

Sometimes all it takes is one chance encounter to change your life forever.

Brexley

After years of hard work finally paying off, I am finally content with my life just the way it is. I've built my bookstore from the ground up with my very best friend, and don't need any distractions.

Which is why the more than six feet of tattooed man-muscle waltzing into our favorite bar can—under no circumstances—be anything more than a chemistry-crazed one night stand.

Or two.

Three max, okay?

Rhyett

Everything always works out how it's supposed to…as long as I follow my gut. When I traded the cloudy, gray mountains of Mistyvale, Alaska for the endless summer of Florida's gulf coast, I didn't expect my intuition to lead me straight to the feisty and fiercely independent Brexley Snows. I especially didn’t think I'd find myself falling for a woman ten years my junior.

Lucky for her, I've never been a man that gives up easily.

Persuading my grumpy Florida fling to slow down and come South of The Skyway might be my greatest endeavor yet.

“With all due respect, give me the goddamned penis.”
I cackled, hiding my face behind the frilly pink book as Noel slammed another copy onto the shelf. After twenty-four years of friendship, you’d think her antics would have lost their touch, but she never failed to make me laugh.
“We get it, we get it. Delay, trauma, delay. But it’s been three books. We all know where this is ending up.” She slid another thick paperback onto the shelf before turning for the box of character-scented candles. “Get it on already.”
“It’s called a slow burn,” I pointed out playfully. Dusky, blush light filled our little bookshop as the hands on my watch kissed closing time. The ironic part of this conversation was that Noel was the one who helped our customers find said slow burns, whilst I scuttled away and tracked the inventory.
“It’s called boring.”
“To each their own.”
“People actually buy this stuff?”
“All day, every day,” I said. The soft hiss of the last copy sliding into place made me smile right as the bell rang. I pushed the empty box aside as Noel sighed, turning for the door with her signature grin. 
“Milly!” she exclaimed, as though she hadn’t just been berating an internationally bestselling romantasy author. Wiping her palms off on her jeans, my best friend made a beeline for the little blonde beaming back at her. “You’re here for the new Lucy Score!”
“Absolutely, I am! Do you have it?” Like clockwork. Milly memorized release dates like our baristas memorized latte orders.
“Of course, I do,” Noel said playfully, making her way to the romantic comedy shelf. “I read it in one sitting. It’s so good to see you! How are you?”
Milly grinned, following her lead. “Better than I deserve, darling. Thanks for asking. How ‘bout yourself?”
The remainder of their interaction faded to a distant blur of sound as I moved to take over stacking ruby glass candles into a tidy pyramid. I loved this one the most with its sandalwood, balsam, and cedar scent. Personally, the idea of bathing in a fragrance that was curated in an ode to fictional book boyfriends struck me as a little odd. But women went haywire for the things, swiping them from our shelves faster than the artists could ship in more. I had to admit, this one took me right back to one of my favorite series, and sneaking sniffs was officially part of the job description. 
The evening light was fading behind towering buildings, condensation still gathered in the corners of our picture window, the cars beyond idling at the intersection. When Milly made her way out the door, a handful of chattering women entered, my throat instantly constricting. My cue to leave. 
With a personality as colorful as her wardrobe and coppery auburn hair, Noel was the people person of the two of us. She was always quick to strike up a conversation and find commonalities to relate to. Whereas I preferred to avoid small talk with more dedication than I’d likely give to the bubonic plague. 
It worked—our little arrangement—I squirreled away, taking inventory and running the backend of the entire operation, while Noel tackled…well, the peopling. The dream of The Cracked Corset had been in my heart since we graduated high school, and I couldn’t imagine opening it with anyone other than my designated extrovert. With my general distaste for human interaction, I certainly wouldn’t have opened it alone, that was for sure. Our all-romance bookstore and whimsical coffee shop was nestled among other quaint businesses in downtown St. Pete, and took the vast majority of our time, tenacity and determination in our early twenties. 
Royal, my cheery little retriever, perked her head up as I absconded into the office like someone had released a hive of bees rather than our sweet regular clientele. Her tail was flicking as though she couldn’t be bothered but was happy to see me, nonetheless. She settled back onto her bed as I turned on my laptop, the machine making a jovial little chime as it came back to life.
This was my forte. The web work, social media schedules, coordinating with authors for signings and events, booking live musicians, profit and loss—pretty much all things data analysis that made Noel’s brown eyes go glossy a beat before she’d blink and start a new task that kept her moving and her hands preoccupied. I sighed when my email about the space across the street still appeared unopened. The Corset had grown, the niched business thriving in the bustle of the city, and desperately needed more room to expand. The building was antique perfection just begging for someone to see the beauty in its bones and breathe some life back into the brick and mortar that time and vacancy had allowed to crumble. Yet again, I was chasing a vision I wasn’t quite sure I could bring to fruition, but the space kept calling to me. Every day I passed those enormous picture windows, my mind filled with what could be–where I’d put the shelving, or the cute and cozy couches we’d been drooling over online. I’d been sending emails almost daily ever since the sign went up in the window. Either we’d unintentionally stolen the owner’s parking spot, or she just never checked her email, because that little envelope still showed up as sealed. Noel would be just as disappointed as me if we couldn’t scoop it up.
My thoughts easily drowned out the women’s chattering voices, blurring them into the background as my music played softly on the little record player in the corner. Impractical as it might have been for small spaces, there was nothing—and I mean nothing—like hearing it on vinyl. An old habit I’d inherited from my grandpapa.
When the chatter wandered into a tunnel of a quick exit, I leaned back in my chair to peek out, curious if the coast was clear. Tote bags encouragingly stretched full of merchandise, the gaggle made its way onto the noisy street. The briefly open door filled our space with the noise of engines, horns, and the whirr of passing cyclists. Noel returned to the table, unpacking and positioning the stack of character art in a skillful little display. They were the last customers for the evening. Our coffee shop had already closed with their side work done, baristas having long-since headed home for the night. 
“You’re coming to The Three Leaf tonight, right?” Noel called over a shoulder, well aware of my eyes on her. The Three Leaf was our favorite bar, and played host to the vast majority of our girls’ night gatherings.
I sighed, glowering and wandering to her side, only to find unyielding eyes beneath those chic, choppy red curls. She ran her fair, freckled fingers through the copper highlights before tucking a nearly limp strand behind her ear. End-of-the-day hair was never in its finest form in this climate.
“I don’t wanna hear it, Brex. We promised the girls.”
The girls were comprised of a handful of women we’d met in high school and college, all of whom Noel stayed intimately in touch with, memorizing each facet of their life and compiling more facts with each phone call or coffee date, while I was content to simply observe.
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved her away, making my way to the espresso bar and fishing my keys off the hook below it. “I’m coming. I promised I would.”
“Mhmm, like I haven’t heard that before.”
It wasn’t that bad. Really, I wasn’t a flake—always studious about my commitments—but I loved socializing as much as I enjoyed contracting pneumonia. I whistled, summoning Royal as I twirled the ring. 
“Must I pinky-promise for you to believe me?”
“I’ll settle for an escort.”
I rolled my eyes and released an airy laugh, catching her drift. “If you wanted to pregame, you just had to ask.” 
“But where’s the fun in that?”