Natalie looks smug. “The person Piper lined up to teach bailed on us this morning, and it’s been hard to find anyone capable or available to step in.”
“Why don’t you teach it, Piper?”
“We’ve promised a published author,” she says, practically through her teeth. Steam practically rises off her as she shootsdaggers at Natalie. “That’s what people have paid for. But I’ve already put out feelers, so someone might respond soon. Honestly, don’t worry about it.”
Piper takes my arm and pulls me toward the door. It’s on the tip of my tongue to insist I can step in and cover the class, but I don’t know the first thing about teaching creative writing, and I certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable in front of a group of prospective writers right now. Not while I’m so incapable.
“Thanks again for coming. We’d love to host you anytime, Dorian.” She unbolts the door and swings it open. “Have a good night.”
The air is heavy between us. I want to close the door, sit her down, and find out exactly what this thing entails so I can figure out whether it’s something I can handle. But just like in college, the thing I want to do and the thing my body chooses to do are exact opposites. Instead of tugging her into a quiet corner, I step outside. Instead of telling her I want to help, I give a weird smile, dip my head, and say, “Good night, Piper.”
Then, like a freaking idiot, I walk away.
four
piper
One of themost appealing factors of renting this space for my bookstore is the apartment above the shop that came with the building. For the cost of rent, I get to live here, abovebooks. Tell me that doesn’t sound like a dream.
The downside? When I’m stuck in my office so late I practically sleep there and still need to open the shop the next morning. Sometimes the separation between work and my personal life is too thin. Practically nonexistent. The balance is completely off.
Like now, when I’m sitting at the desk at sunrise with a steaming mug of herbal tea and my cats-reading-books pajamas. They’re white, with mustard-yellow piping on the collar and hems. As if I don’t wear colors. Psh.
The bell above the front door rings, which means Natalie’s here. It also means it’s not nearly as early as I thought. I check the time and groan. We open in thirty minutes.
I really need to change.
“Good morning,” Nat says, poking her head into my office. She hangs her purse near the door and unwinds her scarf. “Any luck?”
It’s been two days since Dorian’s signing, and I’m no closer to finding a teacher for the classes that begintomorrow. I refresh my email, but nothing changes. “Not yet.”
She drops into the chair in the corner, sighing. “This means we should probably start notifying the people who signed up and offering refunds.”
My stomach clenches. Refunds? I can’t do that. The writing classes are already my attempt to make the store float on its own. If they fail, that means facing the possibility of closing, and I’m not ready for that yet.
Not until I’ve exhaustedallmy resources.
Natalie must be thinking the same thing I am. “Unless you want to reach out to your old pal.”
I rub my sleep-deprived eyes and groan. “Fine. I’ll send an email to Hannah Brandt, but it’s shooting at the moon.”
“That’s not who I was thinking of.”
“I’m not asking Dorian.”
“Sothat’shis name.” Natalie grins. “Why not? He seemed interested in talking to you all night. You’re the one who kept running away.”
“I wasn’t running anywhere. Except a business.”
She throws her hands up. “I won’t complain about getting Hannah Brandt into the store. I just think you already have a bird in the hand.”
Her perception of the relationship between Dorian and me is off. One little interaction, when we’re both trying to be professional, isn’t enough to encompass all the awkwardness we endured during college.
“Hannah’s the better option. Trust me.”
“Okay. You know them better. I’ll go get started at the register.”
“Thanks, Nat.”
