When Everything Feels Like the Movies

I exhale, watching dust motes spin through the summer light. It's quiet in here except for the buzz of the air conditioning keeping no one cool.
Who still reads books anyways?
I mean, besides me of course. Because I work here.
The atmosphere is so romantic though. There's just something about pages upon pages of undiscovered words and the warm air of something waiting to be discovered that just speaks to me. It doesn't hurt that I'm also a writer and this small bookstore influences me and finds it's way into my writing.
Anyways.
Tinggg.
The bell hanging from the door handle pings and I hurriedly straighten up and shove my notebook under counter. I pull the rag from underneath the counter and pretend to dust off an already immaculate surface just to look busy. I hear footsteps, light, across the wooden floorboards. They stop in front of the desk.
I look up. "Hi, can I help-"
I stop.
He's perfect. Smooth pale skin, adorably short, he has a ring piercing his nose, flaming orange hair, and a pair of eyes that were immediately diverted to the ground. He tugs on the numerous bands wrapped around his wrist and his tattoos catch my eye. I trace line after line with my eyes and suddenly, I realize that he's talking to me.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" I ask him, giving up the facade of cleaning and subconsciously tugging my own rubber bracelets down to my wrists.
"I said, do you have Mist: The Book of Ti'ana here? I've been looking everywhere and you're kind of my last hope," he smiled sheepishly, glancing at the floor.
"Yeah, it's on that top shelf in the far right corner next to the door," I smile at him.
"Thanks!" He smiles back and walks off to the indicated corner.
He's got a perfect smile.
He's perfect.
Focus, Austin, you're here to work, not ogle cute boys.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Yeah?" I shake myself out of my inner war.
"Can you help me get it off the shelf? I'm not tall enough for this," he pouts, the book just out of reach of his outstretched fingers.
I laugh and walk around the front desk and walk up next to him. I grab the olive green paperback easily and tug it off the shelf. I hand it to him and he beams up at me.
"Thanks, Austin!"
I look at him, startled. "How'd you know my name?" I ask, nervous butterflies crawling into my throat.
"You're wearing a name tag." He laughs and suddenly I want to hear more of his laughter.
"So is that all or are you going to keep looking?"
Smooth Austin. Very smooth.