“You realize it’s a romance book club, right?” She points toward a display table near the middle of the store. “That’sthe book. Blue cover, rainy window, shirtless man looking emotionally unavailable.”
I glance at the sign. I noticed it yesterday while browsing but didn’t read the details. Now I pick up a copy on my way back to the front, ignoring the way Emi watches me with her mouth slightly parted.
If she wants to know whether I’m serious about getting inside her world, here’s her answer.
By closing time, I’m on the final pages.
Emi flips the sign to Closed and starts turning on lamps near the front seating area while I finish the last scene. It’s a solid book. More feelings than I usually read, but I understand why Emi likes it. The hero is a stubborn bastard who tries to stay away from the woman because he thinks it will protect her, which means he spends half the book making everyone miserable, including himself.
I close the book and look at Emi. She’s carrying a folded chair from the back room, so I get up and take it from her before she can object.
“Connor.”
“I’m helping.”
“I can set up chairs.”
“I know.” I unfold the chair and place it in the loose circle she’s started near the display table. “I’m still helping.”
She gives me a look, but she’s smiling when she goes to grab napkins and a tray of cookies. For the next few minutes, we work together without much discussion. I set up chairs, move a small table, carry out drinks, and put the snack plates where she points. The bookstore changes after hours, quieter and warmerwith the street darkening outside and the lamps turning the shelves golden.
“You really read the whole thing?” she asks as she sets a bowl of pretzels beside the cookies.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The third-act breakup was bullshit.”
Emi laughs. “That is an extremely popular opinion.”
“He should’ve talked to her thirty pages earlier.”
“He was emotionally compromised.”
“He was an idiot.” I pick up the book and tap the cover. “But the rain scene was good.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “The kiss?”
“The kiss.” I remember the scene clearly. The heroine soaked through, the hero finally done pretending he could survive without her, both of them angry and aching and past the point of denial. “That was hot.”
Emi busies herself with straightening a stack of paper plates that are already straight. “It was a good scene.”
“Is that how you’d want to be kissed?”
Her cheeks go pink, and every part of me responds. For a second I think she’s about to say yes. Then the bell above the door rings, and three women come in laughing about something.
Emi turns away from me too quickly. “Book club,” she says under her breath.
I carry the look on her face with me for the next hour.
Book club is a different side of her. Emi leads without dominating, nudges people toward the topic when they wander too far, and makes sure everyone gets a chance to talk. I sit near the edge of the circle with my chair angled toward the door, contributing only when Emi calls on me, which she does twice with an evil little smile. The first time, I say the hero needed to stop making decisions for the heroine. The second time, I saythe rain kiss worked because they both wanted it and neither of them was hiding anymore.
Emi doesn’t look at me for a full minute after that.
When the group finally leaves, actual rain of our own has settled into a light patter against the window. I lock the door behind the last two women and start stacking chairs while Emi gathers cups and napkins. She doesn’t tell me to stop this time.
“Snacks don’t count as dinner, you know,” I say, carrying two chairs toward the back.
