He saw her across a crowded shelf.
Her deckle-edge was seductively deep, her endpapers velvety. She was a first edition, probably autographed. Any man would want to write his name in a book like her.
She noticed him perusing her pages, and blushed. He had a hard spine, and a crisp dust jacket. His eyes were capitalized, and in an obscure font designed in Amsterdam in 1768. She caught herself glancing at his flyleaf, and looked away, mortified.
They were in the YA section, and she was acting like a common galley.
"Can I have your ISBN?" he whispered. He could nearly see her addendum.
"Yes," she cooed, helpless. "Yes."
BWAH. LOVE IT.