They are all like that.Instead of reading like critique, these notes feel personal and charming, and—and very much like I shouldn’t be reading them.
I hastily shove the books back onto the shelf and go to grab Zoe’s list.
CHAPTER 13
GEORGE
I’m definitely goingto start working, I really am. Despite the lack of coffee,I’m fully awake now and well fed, thanks to my generous host. Owen drastically understated the food situation—the fridge iswell-stocked, and thefreezerispractically overflowing with an unbelievable array of homemade meals, all labeled, dated, and marked with reheating instructions. It’s clear that this is Owen’s stash for feeding himself, and I feel guilty for raiding it. Particularly since I left my counterpart nothing more than a half-eaten carton of lo mein and a few scattered spring rolls. Paltry enough on its own, but worse because I just ate pasta alla vodka to die for.
So maybe, before I get started working,I ought to make a trip into town to pick up some of my own food so I can stop trespassing on Owen’s hospitality. It wouldn’t hurt to walk off the meal I’ve had, either, which is fortunate since I have no car. But since I’m walking, all the more reason to go now, since it gets dark ridiculously early this time of year.
I throw on my coat—still a little damp from being caught in the rain earlier—and head out, following Owen’s hand-drawn map. There’s not much to it, but he’s documented the various twists and bends in the road fairly accurately. It’s over a mileinto town, but the shoulder is wide and the route quite scenic, with trees lining the way, and the very occasional mailbox to mark a house or two. It has stopped raining, and the sun has come out, and all in all, it wouldmake for a fairly pleasant walk if it weren’t for the fact that I am absolutely freezing.
The sun might be shining, but there’s a bitter wind blowing in from literally all directions as far as I can tell. By the time I reach the tiny town square, I’m ready to bend down and kiss the ground. I don’t, though, because I’m fairly certain my lips would stick to the pavement.
Owen’s map hereis startlingly accurate, his little cartoon post office and library and even the town Christmas tree looking remarkably like their real-life counterparts. But I’m too cold to give a damn. I spot the general store at the far corner of the square and make a beeline.
A bell jingles as I step through the door and stop to wait for sensation to come back into my extremities.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
I turn to see a diminutive woman who must be well into her 80s watching me from behind an ancient cash register.
“Mmrr mrgllfinn,” I manage. Because apparently my lips are still numb as well.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she tuts. But I can see she’s suppressing a laugh.
“I don’t suppose you have a woolen sock section,” I ask, sounding almost normal.
“Oh, you bet, sweetie. Right this way.” She scurries out from behind the counter, remarkably spry for her age. She leads me through crowded wooden shelves and displays to a tiny clothing section, handing me a basket. “I’m Ruth.”
“George.” I grab two packs of socks and contemplate the sweatshirt collection.I LoVermontorMaple Syrup: I’d TapThat.Also, some otherwise very collegiate-looking seals that simply sayPuck U, which I’m not going to touch.
“No, I definitely haven’t seen you around before.” She’s studying me. “What brings you to our little corner of the world, George?”
I hope she doesn’t recognize me. It doesn’t happen that often, despite a fair amount of publicity. Authors are basically invisible for the most part. Besides, for most of my career, my biggest public exposure hasbeen Luca-related, and Luca has a way of drawing all the attention to himself. Still, I’d rather maintain my anonymity while I’m here.
“Oh, I’m just staying at Owen Wilde’s place for a little,” I say, hoping that’ll be enough to squelch any further questions.
Except Ruth gets real quiet, and when I look up from the long underwear display, I discover she’s beaming at me with a look of pure joy.
“Youare, now? Owen didn’t mention you at all, the rat! Oh my goodness, I am so happy for him! He deserves so much better than he’s had.”
Oh, no. Shit.
“No, I… we’re not… he’s just a friend. Well, not exactly a friend, either, we haven’t, uh?—”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ruth hums, knowingly. She looks me up and down in a way that makes me squirm. “Oh, you’ll do nicely. So much better thanBeau…”
Beau?
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. (Though I can’t help but wonder what that face she made when she said the name meant.)
“I’m just staying at the cabin alone. He’s out of town.”
She tsks. “Good for him! That boy needs to get out in the world from time to time. I know he loves it here, but he seems so shut in, just building things in that workshop of his.” She beamsat me now, reaching up to cup my cheek with her hand. “But not anymore!”
I hate to burst her bubble; she seems to really care about Owen. “We’re really not together, Ruth.”
