Almost.
A flash of brilliant red hair catches my eye. I don’t believe in fate, just as much as I’m certain I’ll never write romance, but Adelaide is a strange turn of fate. All I know is she’s good at what she does and whenever our eyes meet, a soft blush creeps across her cheeks.
“You’re doing well today,” I say when a group of middle-aged women leave her table, both books in hand.
She flips her hair back as she turns to me, then places her hands on her hips. Light dances in her dark blue eyes, almost like stars in the night sky. Of course, it is way too early for me to be thinking of a metaphor like that about someone I just met. Doesn’t stop me from mulling this over in my mind a thousand times. Whoever gets to look in those eyes is the luckiest son of a bitch on this earth. I know it can’t be me. My luck has only ever turned with these books. I’ve used up all my wishing stars.
“I’m a town darling, don’t you know?” Adelaide quips, but her rosy lips are pursed as she unsuccessfully tries to hold back a laugh. Her giggle does my head in and I’m suddenly back to writing poetry about her eyes that have now crinkled with delight. “I think it is partially that people know me so they come say hi. But they were my exact demographic as a historical fiction author.”
“And here I thought women liked relaxing to crime,” I say.
Adelaide sneaks out from behind her table to stand in front of mine. She takes in my display. It’s simple and nowhere near as pretty as some within the library’s stacks. The display across from mine holds vibrant children’s books, one basket full of trinkets, and another full of chocolate chip cookies. This is my first event outside of a bookstore. I didn’t know what to expect and practiced my layout on my kitchen counter for days. I have no extras and no poster. I wound up with four neat stacks of each of my books, plus the giveaway for the three advance copies my agent suggested at the last minute.
Personally, it feels a little underwhelming. Under Adelaide’s eyes, my lack of presentation makes my skin crawl.
“That’s what you write?” she asks. She picks up the book closest to her table.Midnight’s Darkened Secrets. Her long fingers run over the raised letters on the cover, then she silentlyflips to the back. I stay silent as I study her reaction and feel my heart fall into my stomach when she lets out a breathy laugh. “I have to be honest. I forgot my reading glasses in my car and I’m not going backagainso I can barely read this. But I trust you. It looks like a twisty little thriller, am I right?”
“It happens to be my first of four twisty little thrillers. It’s the start of a series following a disgraced lawyer turned amateur detective.” I pause as she raises her eyebrows. “If you’re into that.”
“I’m into it.” She pulls a daisy printed wallet out of her cardigan. “I’m into a lot of things. How much?”
I shake my head. “No, don’t worry about it. You can have it.”
“Can I at least get it signed? And, like, trade you? Do you like historical fiction?”
I make a low noise in the back of my throat like I’m considering the offer, even though I’m so fucking on board with this trade. I have never wanted to read something more. I need to know what kind of world she’s created. She rolls her eyes and crosses back to her table.
“Here,” she says, thrusting a book at me. “I’m most proud of this one.”
I shrug. “I dunno. I’m not your ideal demographic.”
She drops the book on my table. “It’s yours.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Absolutely not. I have to welcome you to the dark side. It’s my responsibility.” She pulls a pink Sharpie out of thin air and flips open her book. I’m rapt as she scrawls out a message for me. Her printing is neat and loopy, her signature a squiggle where I can only make out theAandRof her initials. “I hope you like explosions.”
I laugh because it’s so absurd. Whoisthis woman?
“I could say the same to you.”
She looks down at my book in her hands, then flips it my way. “You have some explosions in there, as well? Was it the biggest man-made one until the atomic bomb?”
“Mmm, maybe not. Just some low grade explosives in mine.” I find the half title page and peer up at her. “You wrote about Halifax?”
She takes a step back and blinks. “I’m impressed. There’s a startling lack of people who know about the Halifax explosion. Probably why my book about the Titanic did better.”
“My Gran’s from the Maritimes. Moved to Beaver Creek when she got married.”
“That’s quite a change.”
I stare down at the blank page in front of me, attempting to come up with something clever. I don’t know what she’s written for me, but she’s quick and snappy. I’m sure I’ll open the book later and laugh. I uncap my black Sharpie and touch down on the page.
Adelaide, Here’s to more explosions and…sparks in our futures
“Are you from here?”
“From, yes.” I run a hand through my hair. “Haven’t lived here in, well, it’s been a while.”
