“Nothing. I just…don’t think I’m needed.”
Her green eyes narrow to slits. “You can’t leave, Piper. This event is your baby. You’ve been buzzing since we scheduled it. I’m sure he’ll forget whatever you said by the time he gets through that line anyway. It can’t be that bad.” She gives me a look. “Besides, you sleep upstairs.”
If he didn’t forget me in the nine years since college, the next two hours won’t change that.
But to Nat, I just smile.
“You aren’t, like, intimidated by him, are you?”
We can go with that. “He’s kind of a big deal.”
Which is true, isn’t it? Oh gosh, it makes me squirm just to think about that. I lean back.
“So are you.” She presses her shoulder against mine, leaning against the rough brick wall beside me. “You’re amazing. You own this store, you have your own little minions, you run the best book club in Nashville, and you’re not even thirty.”
“For another two months.”
“Still counts. You’re the epitome of a successful woman.”
But somehow, seeing Dorian still sent me back almost a decade to the insecure girl who didn’t understand what she did to make him dislike her so strongly.
The man who was first in line approaches the register and drops a book on the counter with a sigh. “I need to buy a second copy.” He taps the book under his arm firmly. “I willnotbe reading my trophy.”
Nat jumps to assist him. “Great. How’d it go?”
“Incredible.” He adjusts his vest. “The man’s a genius.”
I hate myself for agreeing, but it’s true.
The vested customer notices the flyer we have taped to the counter. “Is D.M. James one of the teachers at this writing class?”
“No. I’m sorry, he isn’t,” Natalie says, pulling the receipt from the machine and dropping it into his bag. “This class is sold out already, but keep an eye out for future workshops.”
“Try to get D.M. on for the next one, eh?” he says, snagging his bag. “I’m not a writer, but I’d pay good money for that.”
“I wish!” Nat calls as he retreats. She turns her back on him and faces me, an evil smile curving over her lips.
I know what she wants to say before the words leave her mouth. So I cut her off. “No. We can’t.”
“Just ask him.”
“He won’t do it. He’s a recluse.”
“And a local. You heard all that stuff about Tennessee in his bio. You’re the one who said it.”
“It’s a big state. He could live in Memphis.”
Her expression is telling. “You won’t know if you don’t ask.”
I swipe a stack of staff picks to take to the back office and circle behind the desk. “I’m going to type these up and send some emails. I’ll put out some feelers.”
“Consider it!” she calls.
I make my escape without saying anything else, seeking solace in the emptiness of my office while a line of women clamors for a hot thirty-year-old Dorian McConkie.
Earth, just swallow me whole already.
It wasn’t enough that I had a secret unresolved crush on him back in college despite the way he wanted less than nothing to do with me—probably something in my psyche about wanting the thing you can’t have, but let’s not get into it—now he’s dripping appeal, and I’m sitting here in clothes that blend into my shop like a dowdy librarian.
