He grins, but doesn’t answer me, and starts the car moving back onto the main road.
“Andri.”
“Daphne.”
I stare at him for a good five seconds before I poke him hard in the ribs.
“Ouch!” He feigns a yelp. “Geez, it’s a surprise.” He rubs the spot I just attacked with his blue hand.
I sigh, realizing he won’t be swayed to reveal whatever he’s got in that bag. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But at least tell me why I couldn’t even go into the store with you.”
“It would ruin the effect,” he mumbles.
“What effect? Are you staging a surprise one-man holiday performance art piece for the parade today?”
“Maybe.” He glances toward the busy street. There are tons of tourists between strung tinsel garlands and banners that advertise the parade and street festival. “Anyway, I need to prepare for this surprise.” He parks the car in what seems like the only open spot on the street, directly in front of Ted’s diner.
I gesture dramatically. “Oh god, are you really putting on some kind of performance?” I push my hand over my mouth in case that really is the case. I don’t want him to see me laugh.
“Daphne.” He presses a quick kiss to my forehead—soft, but a little rushed. “Give me an hour. Go…be somewhere cozy.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird, I’m a snowman.” He laughs.
“Well, extra weird.”
“Just trust me,” he pleads.
He looks extra nervous, an actual twitch in his jaw like he’s fighting the urge to pick me up and stash me somewhere so he can work on whatever plan he’s got.
I relent, mostly because somewhere cozy sounds great. Despite my snow boots, the cold is starting to work its way to my toes.
“Fine. I’ll be at the bookstore, I’ve been wanting to check it out, anyway. Come get me when you’re done?”
His shoulders relax like he’s just diffused a bomb. “Perfect.”
The door creaks open to the shop marked only with the word “Bookstore.” I blink, thinking something must be wrong with my eyes. I quickly realize that it’s not me, just that the shop is so incredibly dark that my vision struggles to adjust after the sunny snow of the outdoors.
Instantly the pleasant scent of paper fills my nose. Shelves bow under the weight of hardcovers with cracked spines. A few armchairs are scattered around, making for cozy reading spots, their upholstery well-worn on the arms.
I love this place. It’s old—not crumbling-castle old, but older than any modern mall bookstore that looks as though all the shelving had been assembled with a single Allen wrench.
I grab the first book I see—its gilded leather cover just screams historic in a way I can’t resist.
“You’re holding that upside down.”
I don’t shriek, but the sound I make isn’t a dignified one. I spin around, clutching the book against my chest. There, only a step away, is a man. Tall, pale, and wearing an old-fashioned suit that looks tailored in a way that someone with generational wealth could pull off.
“Oh, I wasn’t reading it,” I say, flipping the book around with some exaggerated confidence. “Just checking out the binding.”
“Ah.” His mouth quirks slightly. “Of course.”
That’s when his slight accent hits me, it’s vaguely European. Maybe something older, more forgotten. It curls around the edges of his words like candle smoke.
I should walk away instead of asking the question I already know the answer to. “Do you work here?”
“No, I just go around correcting tourists when they’re wrong,” he says with a deadpan affectation I can’t tell if he’s being honest or if his humor is just incredibly dry.
