The shop owner shrugs. “Never too late to start. Go on and browse. Mor, I’ll get your book from the back.” Neri sets the stack she’s carrying on the counter, then hustles toward the rear of the shop.
“This place is new too.” Bo gazes around the space.
“What did it used to be?”
“A cobbler.”
“Really? Like, for shoes?”
He nods.
“Not surprised they went out of business.”
The tall shelves full of stories are calling to me, but I remind myself that I have plenty of books at home I still need to read, and this errand is not about my TBR. It’s about a grimoire.
And getting Bo more comfortable in town.
“Neri is a siren,” I tell Bo, letting him know mythic talk is safe in her vicinity. Then I have another spark of inspiration. “She’s mated to Seamus MacNamara.”
He jerks his gaze to me.
“MacNamaras are selkies,” he says. “A founding family.”
I thought that would catch his attention.
“Yep. A selkie and a siren. Then there’s Calder MacNamara, who is mated to a dragon. And of course, you met Levi, who is mated to Moira MacNamara. They’re about to have their first kid. One of the reasons I’m heading your welcome committee is, he’s a bit distracted at the moment with the birth coming soon. So, yeah, looks like a founding family is about to have some monsters in the line.”
He gapes at me, but I have an excuse to move away when Neri reappears with a slim volume bound in leather.
We spend the next few minutes poring over the pages. Immediately, I can tell this isn’t an official grimoire, seeing as how Neri can read much of the text. Grimoires are written in witch’s language, meaning they are illegible to non-witches.However, the detailed descriptions of how herbs can be used in spells seem legit. This may simply be a green witch’s notebook.
“I’ll take it,” I say, planning to consult with a few members of the Folk Haven coven to work out the legitimacy.
“Perfect. Anything else?”
“I don’t …” My words trail off as I turn to spy Bo standing by the window, a tattered paperback in his hand, the sunlight spilling in, illuminating the words he’s reading.
His hair spills over his forehead, and he worries his thick lower lip between his teeth as his eyes concentrate on the page. He holds the book low, farther away than someone normally might when reading.
Trying not to startle him, I casually make my way over to him.
“Found something you like?”
He jerks, then slams the book shut and shoves it back onto the shelve as a flush blooms across his cheeks. “N-no. Not really.”
He wasn’t great about getting the book back in its place, and a quick glance at the protruding spine reveals that he was engrossed in a historical romance. A large-print one.
“I liked that author. Vanessa Riley. She’s local to Georgia. You should get it.”
He shakes his head, still blushing.
“Come on. That’s the dollar shelf. Which means the book is only fifty cents for you.” I tug it free and hold it out to him. “There’s nothing wrong with liking a good book.”
He hesitates. Then he accepts the novel from my hand, our fingers brushing.
I try not to let goose bumps overtake my body.
I pay for my text, and then Bo fishes two quarters out of his pocket.
