The table goes quiet again, but this time, it’s the comfortable quiet of women who’ve been friends long enough to respect each other’s pride even when it’s impractical.
“Okay,” Michelle says finally. “But when you need us, we’re here. All of us.”
“I know.”
“And for what it’s worth,” Amber adds, “I think Jo’s right. Maybe there’s more to Scott Avery than what he shows.”
“Or maybe,” I counter, “he’s just really good at making everyone think that.”
But I don’t quite believe my own words anymore.
I stayat the coffee shop after book club disperses, sitting in the corner booth with my laptop and pretending to work on bookstore finances when really I’m just staring at numbers that don’t add up no matter how many times I rearrange them.
I have nothing.
By the time I get back to The Fiction Nook, it’s almost closing time. Caroline, who took a second job with me a few months ago to help pay tuition, is at the register, ringing up the last customer of the day—Grandma Hensley, who’s purchased three romance novels and is currently regaling Caroline with her theories about which Twin Waves couples are “secretly in love but too stupid to admit it.”
“And that Avery boy,” she’s saying as I walk in. “Watching the bookstore like he’s got nothing better to do. I’ve seen him drive past here four times this week, and it’s only Tuesday.”
My stomach does something complicated.
“Hi, Grandma Hensley,” I say brightly, interrupting what sounds like the beginning of a very long dissertation. “Did Caroline take good care of you?”
“She’s a treasure.” Grandma Hensley pats Caroline’s hand, then turns her sharp gaze on me. “You look tired, dear. That landlord of yours giving you trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe me for a second. “Well, if you need someone to talk sense into that boy, you let me know. I knew his mother. Sweet woman. Raised him right, even if he pretends otherwise.”
She leaves with her books, and I lock the door behind her, flipping the sign toCLOSED.
“Scott Avery’s been driving past the shop?” I ask Caroline.
She looks up from counting the register, guilty. “Maybe? I mean, I’ve noticed his car a few times. But that doesn’t mean anything. This is a small town. People drive past things.”
“Four times in two days?”
“That does seem important,” she admits. “But in a romantic way, not a creepy way. Like, he’s trying to work up the courage to come in and apologize for being a corporate tool.”
“Caroline.”
“What? You’ve read the same books I have. This is textbook pining. He’s the grumpy hero with a secret soft side who doesn’t know how to express feelings without a spreadsheet.” She grins. “You’re the sunshine heroine who sees through his walls and makes him feel things he doesn’t want to feel.”
“Real life isn’t a romance novel.”
“Isn’t it?” She starts separating bills, not looking at me. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got enemies-to-lovers tension, forced proximity through a business relationship, and enough sexual tension to power a small city. The only thing missing is the grand gesture.”
“Or the part where we actually like each other.”
“Do you not like him?”
The question catches me off guard. “I...don’t know. He’s frustrating and arrogant and treats my bookstore like it’s an economic inconvenience. But also—” I stop, because finishing that sentence means admitting things I’m not ready to admit.
“But also?” Caroline prompts.
“But also, Michelle says he reads poetry. And he looked at my V. Langley display like I’d stabbed him. And when my hair fell down this morning, he looked at me like...” I trail off, shaking my head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Like what?” Caroline abandons the register completely, fully invested now.
