the book had been in his hand, he was sure of it. it was a thick book of poems, beautifully bound in a green hardcover with gold writing printed into the front. it had definitely been in his hand. except then it wasnât. and he wasnât alone in the bookstore. he watched as the book seemed to just tumble from his hand, right onto the foot of the other person in the aisle.
a gasp caught in his throat as he ducked down to grab it, struggling a moment before he focused and lifted it from the floor. âiâm so sorry! oh my gosh, iâm a total clutz lately. if itâs not books, itâs a glass or keys or pencils and paintbrushes.â he grimaced a little and looked up at the other. âis your foot okay?â















