Page 47 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“It’s time to stick yourself in the oven of life.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Think it over. It’ll eventually come.”

Chapter 12

Taking in Strays

George hadn’t asked a woman out in a few years. He’d dated some since his divorce, but nothing had stuck, and in the end, he’d decided that he’d lost his chance for more romantic love in this life.

Yet, here he was, standing across the street from the bookstore, looking beyond the scaffolding to the entrance.

He hadn’t thought so much about a woman since Faith. Funny how they did that to a man, the right one, something like magnetism, giving courage where there was none. A guy smitten by a girl will do about anything to get a chance with her—even a fellow in his sixties.

They’d barely spoken, but there was something so utterly divine about Sandy, and he’d enjoyed their brief banter. A thousand voices told him to turn back; they’d been on him all morning, but he simply had to give it a shot. What was the worst that could happen, that she would reject him? Such a brick wall couldn’t be nearly as bad as being dumped on his ass by his employer of almost thirty years. And a worse alternative would be returning to Arizona with the regret of not asking her out at all.

Deciding there was no more time to waste, he crossed the street, nodded at the workmen who flashed big grins with cigarettes poking out of their mouths, then ducked into the store. A bell dinged. Soft classical music played in the background.

A few customers wandered about, but he didn’t see Sandy. Perhaps she was upstairs. As opposed to fixating on his mission, he thought he might play it casually. Unable to remember when he’d last visited a bookstore, he glanced over at the featured bestsellers, didn’t recognize a single one. Meandering under the arch and coming under the impressive vaulted ceiling of the main room, he studied the categories on the signs above the shelves. Fantasy and Sci-fi certainly weren’t for him. He wasn’t even sure fiction was his thing. Maybe something nonfiction made more sense. A display of Bianca’s books stood at the end of one shelf.

He tried not to think about how he hadn’t read her book. He’d tried, for the record. Exactly two chapters when she’d first sent the advance reader copy. And it had just about killed him, how he was a mirror of Peggy Meh’s father. Not that it was the first time he’d considered it, but the words on the pages had confirmed that he, George, had failed as a father and left lasting effects that his daughter was still working through.

“Mr. Briggs?” said a voice from behind.

He turned to find the young English woman who’d interviewed Bianca at the signing. Her glasses were so thick it made it hard to see her eyes.

“Hi, there,” he said. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Moira.”

“Moira, that’s right. Good to see you.” The purpose of his visit returned to him and gave him a fresh wave of nerves, a tingle in hands and heart.

“May I help you find something?”

All at once, his heart pounded, one big solid thud that made him feel dizzy. “Oh, no, just poking around. I . . .” It was now or never. He waited a moment to let his body settle. “I was hoping to find Sandy. Is she around?”

“She is indeed. I think she’s upstairs. Let me go retrieve her.”

George pretended to look at books, but he peered inward, talking to himself. Play it cool, George. Be interesting. Most of all, be confident.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Young Adult reader,” Sandy said, appearing to his left moments later. The Fault in Our Stars faced him. He noticed the YA sign that hung above the shelf. Busted.

“Not that I’m judging,” Sandy continued. “I enjoy YA from time to time. Just didn’t see that one coming.”

He turned fully in her direction. “I tend to surprise people.”

“Is there a particular title you’re looking for?”

He couldn’t pretend another second. “I better come clean before it’s too late. No, I don’t read YA, was just off into space, thinking.”

“Ah, another peruser without any intention of buying anything. Can I get you a latte and a zuppa Inglese?”

“A what?”

She allowed a hint of a smile, which he took as a gift. And boy was she pretty. The whole package, really. It was all he could do not to stare. She had the finest legs he’d ever seen, perched in heels as long as pencils.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “We don’t do food or coffee here. I’m venting some of my frustrations regarding the people who darken my door without spending a dime. Anyway, what can I help you with?” Her smile went away as fast as it had come, like a shooting star.