Before I can overthink it, I pocket the collar and head for the shower. Just being neighborly, I tell myself. That's all.
Twenty minutes later, I'm crossing the street, freshly showered and wondering if this is too obvious. Too eager. But I've never been a man who hesitates once I've made up my mind, and my mind is very interested in seeing Nora Bell again.
Her house looks even more charming up close. Pumpkins flanking the steps, a wreath of golden maple leaves on the front door. The curtains in the front window are drawn back, and I catch a glimpse of movement inside. She's home.
I take the porch steps two at a time and knock before I can change my mind.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then I hear a thump, a muffled "Crap!", and hurried footsteps. The door swings open, and there she is—hair piled messily on top of her head, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, eyes wide with surprise.
"Devin!" She blinks rapidly. "Hi! I mean, good morning. Is everything okay?"
She looks soft and rumpled in a way that makes my chest feel tight. There's a smudge of something on her cheek, and her socked feet peek out from beneath flannel pajama pants covered in cartoon cats.
"Morning." I can't help the grin spreading across my face. "Sorry to interrupt. I found this in my yard and thought it might be Pudding's." I hold up the tiny collar.
Her brow furrows. "Oh no, Pudding's collar is orange."
Smooth move, Turner. My excuse to see her crumbles, but before I can feel too ridiculous, Nora's expression shifts to something knowing and amused.
"But thanks for bringing it by," she adds, a hint of pink touching her cheeks. "Do you want to come in? I've got coffee. Or cider, if you prefer something more seasonal."
"Coffee would be great," I say, relief washing through me as she steps back to let me in.
Her house is exactly what I'd expect from someone who works in a bookstore.. Books are stacked on every surface, mingled with candles and ceramic mugs. A large desk by the window holds a laptop, the screen showing a document with far more words than I wrote in all my college papers combined.
"Sorry about the mess," she says, leading me toward the kitchen. "I wasn't expecting company."
"It's not a mess. It's lived-in." I follow her, noticing how the morning light catches copper highlights in her blonde hair."My place is all boxes and dust right now. This is paradise by comparison."
Pudding is curled on the windowsill, soaking up the sun. He opens one eye as we enter, gives me what I swear is a knowing look, then resumes his nap.
"Your cat's judging me," I comment as Nora moves to the coffee maker.
She glances at Pudding and snorts. "He judges everyone. It's his spiritual practice." She pulls two mugs from a cabinet, one saysI like big books and I cannot lieand the other features what looks like a grumpy wizard. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Black is fine." I lean against her counter, watching her move with comfortable familiarity in her space. "So, what were you working on when I interrupted? Looked intense."
She freezes for a millisecond before resuming her coffee preparation. "Oh, just... writing. It's what I do. Besides the bookstore, I mean."
"You're a writer?" Interest prickles through me. "What do you write?"
The coffee maker gurgles as she fiddles with the mugs, not quite meeting my eyes. "Fiction, mostly. Novels."
"What kind of novels?" I press, enjoying the way her cheeks grow pinker.
She hands me the wizard mug, finally meeting my gaze with a mix of defiance and embarrassment. "Romance. I write romance novels."
"No kidding." I take a sip of coffee. "Published?"
"Five books so far." Her chin lifts slightly. "Under the name Eleanor Nightingale."
The name doesn't ring any bells, but I haven't exactly been keeping up with the romance genre. "That's impressive. Five books is no joke."
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Most people think romance is frivolous. Not real writing."
"Most people are idiots," I counter, earning a surprised laugh from her. "Creating anything is hard work. Besides, what's more important than love stories?"
She studies me for a moment, like she's trying to figure out if I'm messing with her. "That's... not the reaction I usually get from men."
