“Not much of a list, is it?”
“No, miss,” Mrs. Long replied, skipping over the sarcasm like a feather-light rock over a pond. “Is there anything else?”
“Uh… No. Thank you.”
The woman left Sam with her paper, which Sam refused to look at for too long. She did everything to distract herself. Solitaire. Reddit refreshing. Her homework. Thesis reading. Then, when her eyes were too heavy to keep open any longer, she removed the folder’s single sheet of paper.
Worse than a single piece of paper, the information it contained held only one name.
“Shit.”
Daniel Best.
Chapter Eight
The trouble with his nan—well, the trouble witheveryonein Daniel’s life—was that they didn’t mind giving their opinions. Not only did they not mind it, they insisted upon it, even when it wasn’t wanted or necessary. From her vigil behind the counter of her bookshop, Nan watched him through narrowed eyes as he shuffled in through the frosted door, and verbally pounced.
“What happened?” she asked.
Daniel relieved himself of his guitar case and knapsack. It was good to be back in the shop. For one thing, there was centralized heating, something he’d been in sore need of ever since giving his coat away.
“Huh?”
“Don’thuhme, Danny Boy. You can’t even keep your miserable head up. Now, what’s the matter? Your mum told me you left the house this morning whistling like a tea kettle.”
“I was in a good mood. Now I’m not. Nothing to it,” he dismissed, reaching for his uniform apron. The familiar fabric with its fraying edges comforted him in a way it hadn’t yesterday.
“You’re always in a good mood,” Nan said. “One time an entire shelf of books fell on you and you smiled the whole way to the hospital.”
Around them, the store idly hummed with activity. A handful of regulars sat at their usual tables, reading their newspapers and chatting in hushed tones. Some tourists charged their phones in the corner, mooching the free wifi and nibbling on a homemade scone. At night, the shopreallycame alive, with book clubs and writer’s nights, with open mic evenings and pop-up art showings for the starving artists of Oxford. Community happened here, but not a lot of actual bookselling. It gave no room for Daniel to escape, not his grandmother or this conversation.
“Angie was right about something,” he confessed. “And you know I hate it when she is. She never stops gloating.”
“What was she right about?”
“I struck out with this girl. No big deal.”
But it wasn’tno big deal. A girl who’d put a song in him turned out to be everything he’d thought she was better than. He’d thought her ice queen act was nothing more than a facade. But now, whenever he thought of her, he only saw her eyes. They were cold and thick as Antarctic ice. Impenetrable.
“Which girl?”
“Nan, I’m really not in the mood to talk about this.”
Ding. The bell over the door rang as it swung open.
“Don’t want to talk about what?”
A gust of cold outside air accompanied Angie as she marched right up to the counter. In some ways, she was like a trained seal. She knew if she approached Nan, she would be rewarded with a cup of tea and a homemade biscuit.
“Great.” Daniel fought a groan. Couldn’t he wallow in peace? “Just…great.”
“What happened? You look like shit.”
Focusing on the espresso machine in front of him, Daniel appraised his reflection in one of the aging silver knobs, grateful he didn’t look nearly as tired or defeated as he felt.
“I look normal,” he snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if the new song was finished.”
