He grooms his paw like he hasn’t just committed book violence.
Caroline appears from the back room. “Did Austen knock another book off the counter?”
“He hates it when I read so much.”
“Smart cat.” She picks up the book, glances at the cover. “Ooh, is this the one where the duke is secretly her pen pal the whole time, and she doesn’t figure it out until chapter twenty even though it’s incredibly obvious?”
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s you not dealing with your feelings by reading about fictional people not dealing with their feelings.” She sets the book on a high shelf, out of Austen’s reach. “Also, Mrs. Robinson is coming in at noon. She wants something ‘light and fun’ for her trip to see her grandkids.”
“I can handle Mrs. Robinson.”
“Can you? Because yesterday you recommended a secret baby book to Mr. James. He wanted a thriller.”
“The baby was a secret. There was...thrilling tension.”
Caroline just looks at me.
“I’ll do better today,” I mutter.
I do not do bettertoday.
Customer number one is a young woman in her early twenties, looking for a beach read.
“Something easy,” she says. “Nothing too complicated. I just want to turn my brain off.”
I should give her a cozy mystery. A lighthearted rom-com. Something with a dog on the cover.
Instead, my hand reaches for a book about a woman who exchanges anonymous letters with a man she doesn’t realize she already knows.
“This one’s great,” I hear myself saying. “The twist is so satisfying. She figures out who he really is about halfway through, and the second half is all about whether she can forgive him for hiding the truth.”
The customer takes it, looking pleased. “Sounds perfect!”
She leaves. I stare at the door.
Caroline’s head pops out from the historical fiction section. “Did you just recommend another secret identity romance?”
“No.”
“I heard you say ‘anonymous letters’ and ‘hiding the truth.’”
“It’s a popular trope.”
She disappears, then returns with a Post-it note and a pen. Writes something. Sticks it to the register.
Secret Identity Recs: I
“That’s not necessary.”
“I think it is.”
Customer number two arrives at twelve-thirty. Middle-aged man who looks vaguely uncomfortable being in a bookstore at all.
“My wife sent me,” he says. “She wants a cozy mystery. Something with a cat?”
A cat mystery. Simple. I have an entire shelf of cat mysteries.
