I lunge to catch them and manage to save exactly zero books while somehow knocking my coffee mug off the counter—the mug that was empty, thank goodness, but which shatters on the hardwood.
Austen observes this chaos from his counter throne like he’s watching a nature documentary about prey animals making poor decisions.
“Not a word,” I tell him.
I’m on my knees gathering scattered paperbacks when the brass bell above the door chimes.
“Please tell me that’s coffee,” I call without looking up, because dignity left the building approximately thirty seconds ago.
“Better.” Michelle sweeps in wearing yoga pants and an oversized cardigan, smiling like she’s already consumed caffeine and is therefore operating on an entirely different plane of existence. “It’s coffeeandgossip.”
My best friend since high school, Twin Waves Brewing Company owner, professional busybody, and, most importantly, the person who brings coffee.
“You’re a goddess.” I accept the travel mug, taking the first sip while still kneeling on the floor surrounded by books. The espresso hits my bloodstream like heaven on earth. “Bless you and your perfect espresso machine.”
“I know.” Michelle surveys the destruction around me. “Rough morning?”
“The summer tower collapsed, and then the beach reads followed. I lost a mug in the process.”
“That tracks.” She steps carefully over a copy ofThe Summer of Usand props herself against the counter. Austen immediately abandons his perch to wind around her ankles, purring like she’s made of tuna fish and compliments. “So. We need to talk about the bouquet toss.”
My hands freeze on a copy ofLove and Other Disasters. “No, we don’t.”
“Jess.”
“Michelle.”
“He looked at you like you were his last meal and his first prayer.”
I choke on my coffee, which requires impressive coordination given that I’m still kneeling in a pile of romance novels. “That’s... very dramatic. Even for you. And I say this as someone who’s read your wedding Pinterest boards.”
“I’m engaged to a man who proposed with a coffee blend he created specifically for me. I know dramatic romance when I see it.” Michelle crouches down to help gather books, but her expression says she’s not dropping this topic anytime in this lifetime. “Scott Avery was staring at you with an intensity that probably violated several fire codes.”
“Scott Avery was probably calculating the property value of my entire existence.”
Michelle laughs, bright and delighted in the early morning quiet of my shop. “Come on. You caught the bouquet. He was standing right there. The entire reception saw the way he?—”
“The entire reception was drunk on reading way too many romance novels.” I stand, dusting off my knees. “Including you. Especially you.”
“I’ve been reading romance novels my whole life.”
“It’s given you an overactive imagination.”
“Scott Avery looked at you like he wanted to put you in his pocket and keep you forever. That’s not imagination. That’s eyewitness testimony.”
I move behind the counter, needing the familiar barrier between myself and this conversation. Between myself and the memory of Scott Avery’s storm-gray eyes meeting mine across a crowded dance floor while I clutched Amber’s bouquet like it might protect me from whatever was happening to my heartbeat.
“Scott Avery sees me as a financial inconvenience with unrealistic business expectations,” I say firmly. “That’s all.”
“Is that what we’re calling sexual tension these days?”
“That’s what we’re calling my landlord who keeps suggesting I turn this bookstore into a wine bar or boutique or literally anything more profitable than my dreams.”
“A wine barwouldbe very profitable,” Michelle says thoughtfully.
I throw a bookmark at her. It’s the closest weapon available. “Traitor. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Iamon your side. The side that wants you to kiss a tall grumpy man who secretly reads poetry.”
