I retrieved my hot chocolate charcuterie tray and set it on the table before him. “Yes. And more.” It was heavily laden with mini marshmallows, peppermint sticks, chocolate, caramel, mint, and peanut butter chips, plus a variety of brightly colored sprinkles, jimmies, and sugars.
His eyes widened.
“Whipped cream and chocolate syrup are in the fridge.”
Slowly, he turned his awestruck expression to me. “Were you Martha Stewart in a former life?”
“No, but I did have a local chocolatier speak at Rini Reads last fall. She brought a similar tray with accoutrements from her shop. I just ripped it off.”
He stole a chocolate chip and tossed it into his mouth. “Grace’s speakers always seem to talk about birds and history. Nothing as delicious as hot chocolate.”
“Sounds like Grace needs to up her speaker game,” I said, joining him at the table to wait for the water to boil. “Also, Martha Stewart is very much alive.”
The familiar zing of energy coiled in the air between us, and I smiled.
“Tell me more about your friend Paul,” he said, dropping another chocolate chip into his mouth.
I selected a small piece of peppermint from the tray, unsure how to answer his question. “Paul’s a nice local professor.”
Davis munched, nosy but unbothered. “Ever find out who sent you flowers?”
“Why?” I asked, adding a bit of challenge to my tone.
“Is there a reason it’s the same bouquet every time? Are those your favorites or something?”
“They are now,” I said. “They’re a message sent in the language of flowers.”
Davis’s expression turned painfully bland. “Adorable,” he said, not sounding as if he thought it was adorable at all.
I beamed just to watch his frown deepen, a little trick I’d learned recently.
“Does that smile mean you’re removingGive up on lovefrom your list?”
The kettle whistled, and he stretched upright. “Never mind. I’ll get that.”
We remained silent a long while as we stirred our drinks, then perfected our topping selections. I admired the care Davis took in building a perfect hot cocoa, as if he might receive a grade at the end. Then I forcefully peeled my eyes away before he noticed me staring.
“You never answered my question,” he said.
“You told me to never mind.”
He pursed his lips, the old grumpy expression falling back into place. “Have you changed your mind about giving up on love?”
A lump formed instantly in my throat and chest, forcing me to look briefly away. I took a steadying breath then shook my head, wishing I could answer differently. “No.”
I wasn’t in the market for romance, but I was learning to love myself and this town more with each passing day. I hadn’t anticipated wanting to stay, but I did. I wasn’t sure where that left me.
Dammit, Emily. What am I supposed to do now?
Chapter Twenty-One
The following day, I sat beneath an oak tree on the gravel lane with my journal and cell phone, scribbling plans for my perfect version of Rini Reads and hoping my parents wouldn’t take offense at the changes I wanted to make. I hadn’t been able to sleep after Davis left the night before. I’d toiled with existential questions and dug deep into my heart. What did I want from my life? Where did I want to live? What did I want to do?
I’d discovered that I wanted to run a bookstore, but not Rini Reads. At least not as it currently existed. And I’d filled a notebook with ideas on how I could make it my perfect bookstore. I walked the lane with Emily’s words in my ears as lunch drew near. She thought the truth was rare, and therefore a delight to tell. I couldn’t disagree. Then I took a deep breath and made a very important phone call.
“Emma?” Mom answered on the first ring. “Are you okay? You don’t usually call until evening. Your father and I can be there in ninety minutes.”
I laughed. “I’m fine. I was just thinking of you and wanted to talk.” Because Cecily had been right. Some things were too important to wait for days to say. This wasn’t the 1850s, and I liked hearing my loved ones’ voices anytime I wanted. Like now.
