I never did learn what made me so unlikable to him. But it’s probably the same reason none of the people I’ve reached out to about replacing our writing instructor agreed to help me out. Which is a problem, since our class begins next week.
I open my phone camera and hold it up, combing back my light brown hair. If I were a heroine, the writer would describe it as mousy or average. My eyes would be the color of mold, and my skin would be…something boring and lifeless. Not pale, exactly, but not tan either. In my defense, we’re coming out of winter.
Unremarkable, pretty much. Not the glow-up that would have made Dorian regret ever getting up andmoving to the other side of the roomwhen I sat beside him in English. Or make him regret turning down the invitation to my birthday dinner, even though it was only a pity invite because we sharedfriends and they were all going to be there. Or make him regret leaving in the middle of my sentence when I tried to walk with him between English and the class we shared on the British Romantics.
Did I have the bubonic plague? Spots? Cooties?
I know for a fact I didn’t smell bad. Thank you, Daisy by Marc Jacobs.
If I had known I was facing my past tonight, I would have tried harder, though. Why is it that on good hair days I end up seeing no one, and when I’m having a bit of a Miss Trunchbull moment, I run into everyone I know? That’s what this feels like.
“Are you planning to rejoin us?” Natalie asks from the doorway.
The voice comes at me so suddenly that I squeal, tossing my phone and managing to hit myself in the face. I tumble to the floor and conveniently snatch my phone up again. “Got it.”
“You can pretend all you want, but I saw you fall. What is up with you?”
“It’s an off day. How’s the line?”
“Growing.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to do. You need to come out here. At what point do we cut them off?”
I glance at the time. “We’re supposed to close in twenty minutes.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Did you talk to Dor—Mr. James? Is he leaving right at nine?”
Natalie shakes her head. “I don’t know. Ravi’s been working the line, and I’ve been at the register.”
I get up. Dust clings to the side of my leg, but I pat it away. What is wrong with me? Just because my college nemesis has been holding court in my store for the last ninety minutes, I’vebeen holed away like a mole person, allowing my employees to cover while I cowered in shame. They deserve better than that. My pride isn’t worth their good opinion of me.
Maybe I should have accepted my mom’s offer to come help with crowd control, but I didn’t think I’d need it. No—I still don’t. This is manageable. As sweet as my parents are, and despite the solid emotional support they give me, I am a business owner, and this is something I can handle on my own.
“Sorry,” I tell Nat, turning off my computer. “I’m not sure I’ll find anyone to replace Mr. Simmons in the writers’ class, but I tried a few people.”
“Don’t you know Hannah Brandt?” Natalie asks.
She knows I do. She’s fully aware I went to school with Hannah and used to beta read her earlier books. But ever since Hannah’s books took off, she’s been harder to get in touch with. I don’t think she has time for something like this.
“We’ll find someone,” I promise. “Now we probably need to lock this down.”
“We can post Ravi at the door to stop letting in new people. I’ll take the register since he hates it.”
“Good plan.”
There’s a small line at the register where Ravi is helping customers, and the signing line doesn’t look to be any shorter than it was when I dipped out earlier. Dorian isn’t just going to walk out when his time comes to an end—he’s going to refuse to return after such a poorly managed event. Which maybe is what I want?
No, I can’t think like that.
“I’ll talk to the author,” I say, drawing in a breath and arming myself with Natalie’s pep talk from earlier. I’m a boss lady with an excellent store, an incredible second career—even if no one knows about it—and fantastic success for a woman who hasn’t even hit thirty yet. Not for two more months.
I’m hardcore. I’ve worked my tail off, and these are the fruits of my labors.
I’m practically hyperventilating when I reach the table and plant myself just to the right of Dorian’s shoulder. His signature is practiced; the flourish on James is large and sweeping. Even the way he holds the pen is commanding and masculine.
