“Yes, you. Look at what you’ve accomplished, Charly.” She spins, gesturing to the bookshop. “Like you said, the Wembleys are vultures. They tried to break you, but they couldn’t. You’re thriving. In one year, you bought your own home. Opened your own business. You blossomed into your own person. I admire you.” With a hand resting on her tiny bump, she turns back to me, and my God, she looks despondent. “My greatest regret is that you and I can never be friends because of what I did to you.”
I step out from behind the counter and take her hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. “We’re not enemies, and that’s a start.”
“Maybe we can go for lunch one day?”
“Yeah, no. Not there yet.” I drop her hands, and she looks crestfallen. “But I do like ice cream.”
Lisa perks up, her eyes brightening. “I won’t say no to a chocolate-dipped cone.”
“Guess we have a playdate, then.”
“Guess we do,” she says.
And just like that, the giant chip on my shoulder falls away, leaving me lighter than I’ve felt in a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My laughter is bittersweet as I plop down onto the couch, bowl of popcorn in hand. It’s impossible not to think about the night Rhys knocked on my door or the day after we went food shopping. Such a mundane activity—but one I’d give up a kidney to do with him again.
I miss him.
God, how I miss him.
Miserable, I toss a handful of popcorn in my mouth, chewing through a smile, laughing over how he asked if I wanted corn or carrots, and I thought he asked if I wanted porn.
With aP.
Notcorn with aC.
Was it ten days ago?
No, it had to be a lifetime ago. A million years and a million tears ago.
I grab my laptop and shove aside the dread that comes with knowing I’ll hit yet another brick wall. But maybe tonight will be different. I hope. I hope, I hope, I hope as my fingers hover over the keyboard and I stare at the empty search bar, not knowing what term to put there.
What word haven’t I tried?
What could I have possibly missed?
My phone pings, and because it’s late—almost midnight—I immediately check it to see if it’s Gram. God forbid. She’d only text if something were wrong. Wait, no. It’s a direct message.
From The Book Boyfriends.
Oh my fucking God.
My hand trembles and my fingers fumble as I open the app, and there it is, bold as you please. Admin has replied to my messages. With my heart pounding so damn hard it actually hurts and my blood rushing so fast, I’m a little dizzy. I tap the little notification envelope and I land at the message center, and there—right there—is a note.
For me.
From Cupid.
Dear Charlotte Mallory (Member #822),
Thank you for reaching out to The Book Boyfriends on behalf of Rhys Ravenstone. I appreciate the time it took for you to send a disturbing number of messages pleading his case. While I understand you feel I’ve been most unfair by “ripping him away” to send himback to that “miserable fucking void,” I assure you I afforded you the same opportunity I give to every broken soul I encounter. You failed to believe in true love until it was too late. However, after carefully reviewing the many (and often rambling and incoherent) messages, I may reconsider my judgment on two conditions. Answer the below question honestly (I’ll know if you’re lying) and I’ll let you know the second condition.
Do you love Rhys Ravenstone?
—Cupid, aka “cruel motherfucker” “dickhead” and “asshole”
