AFTER PAYING FOR my iced Americano at Mug + Shot, I ask the chipper barista with the septum piercing for the Wi-Fi password.
“Oh!” She gestures to a wooden sign behind her reading, Let’s unplug! “No Wi-Fi here. Sorry.”
“Wait,” I say, “really?”
She beams. “Yep.”
I glance around. No laptops in sight. Everyone here looks like they came straight from climbing Everest or doing drugs in a Coachella yurt.
“Is there a library or something?” I ask.
She nods. “A few blocks down. No Wi-Fi there yet either—supposed to get it in the fall. For now they’ve got desktops you can use.”
“Is there anywhere in town with Wi-Fi?” I ask.
“The bookstore just got it,” she admits, quietly, like she’s hoping the words don’t trigger a stampede of coffee drinkers who would very much like to be un-unplugged.
I thank her and emerge into the sticky heat, sweat gathering in my armpits and cleavage as I trek toward the bookstore. When I step inside, it feels like I’ve just wandered into a maze, all the breezes, wind chimes, and bird chatter going quiet at once, that warm cedar-and-sunned-paper smell folding around me.
I sip my ice-cold drink and bask in the double-barreled serotonin coursing through me. Is there anything better than iced coffee and a bookstore on a sunny day? I mean, aside from hot coffee and a bookstore on a rainy day.
The shelves are built at wild angles that make me feel like I’m sliding off the edge of the planet. As a kid, I would’ve loved the whimsy of it—a fun house made of books. As an adult, I’m mostly concerned with staying upright.
On the left, a low, rounded doorway is cut into one of the shelves, its frame carved with the words Children’s Books.
I bend to peer through it to a soft blue-green mural, like something out of Madeline, words swirling across it: Discover new worlds! Off the other side of the main room, an average-sized doorway leads to the Used and Rare Book Room.
This main room isn’t exactly brimming with crisp new spines. As far as I can tell, there’s very little method to this store’s organization. New books mixed with old, paperbacks with hardcovers, and fantasy next to nonfiction, a not-so-fine layer of dust laid over most of it.
Once, I bet this place was a town jewel where people shopped for holiday presents and preteens gossiped over Frappuccinos. Now it’s another small-business graveyard.
I follow the labyrinthine shelves deeper into the store, past a doorway to the world’s most depressing “café” (a couple of card tables and some folding chairs), and around a corner, and I freeze for a millisecond, midstep, one foot hovering in the air.
Seeing the man hunched over his laptop behind the register, an unimpressed furrow in his brow, is like waking up from a nightmare where you’re falling off a cliff, only to realize your house has been scooped up by a tornado while you slept.
This is the problem with small towns: one minor lapse in judgment and you can’t go a mile without running into it.
All I want to do is turn and hightail it, but I can’t let myself do it. I won’t let one slipup, or any man, start governing my decisions. The whole reason to avoid workplace entanglements is to protect against this scenario. Besides, the entanglement was avoided. Mostly.
I square my shoulders and rise my chin. In that moment, for the very first time, I wonder if I might have a guardian angel, because directly across from me, on the local bestsellers shelf, sits a face-out stack of Once in a Lifetime.
I grab a copy and march up to the counter.
Charlie’s gaze doesn’t lift from his laptop until I’ve smacked the book onto the gouged mahogany.
His golden-brown eyes slowly rise. “Well. If it isn’t the woman who ‘isn’t stalking me.’ ”
I grind out, “If it isn’t the man who ‘didn’t try to ravish me in the middle of a hurricane.’ ”
His sip of coffee goes spewing back into his mug, and he glances toward the tragic café. “I certainly hope my high school principal was ready to hear that.”
I lean sideways to peer through the doorway. At one of the card tables, a stooped, gray-haired woman is watching The Sopranos on a tablet with only one earbud in. “Another one of your exes?”
That downward tick in the corner of his mouth. “I can tell you’re pleased with yourself when your eyes go all predatory like that.”
“And I can tell you are when you do that lip-twitch thing.”
“It’s called a smile, Stephens. They’re common here.”
“And by ‘here,’ you must mean Sunshine Falls, because you definitely aren’t referring to the five-foot radius of your electric fence.”
“Have to keep the locals away somehow.” His eyes drop to the book. “Finally biting the bullet and reading the whole thing?” he says dryly.
“You know . . .” I grab the book and hold it in front of my chest. “I found this on the bestsellers shelf.”
“I know. It’s shelved right next to the Guide to North Carolina’s Bike Trails my old dentist self-published last year,” he says. “Did you want one of those too?”
“This book has sold more than one million copies,” I tell him.
“I’m aware.” He picks up the book. “But now I’m wondering how many of those you bought.”
I scowl. He rewards me with an almost grin, and for the first time, I know exactly what my boss means when she describes my “smile with knives.”
I look away from his face, which really just means my eyes skate down his golden throat and over his pristine white T-shirt to his arms. They’re good arms. Not in a ripped way, just an attractively lean way.
Okay, they’re just arms. Chill, Nora. Straight men have it too easy. A heterosexual woman can see a very normal-looking, nonsexual appendage, and biology’s like, Step aside, last four thousand years of evolution, it’s time to contribute to the continuation of the human race.
He brushes his laptop aside and starts rearranging the pens, pamphlets, and other office supplies on the desk. Maybe I’m not horny for him so much as his clothes and his organizational skills. “I was actually just emailing you.”
I jolt back to the conversation, vibrating like a snapped rubber band. “Oh?”
He nods, his jaw set, his eyes dark and intense. “Have you heard from Sharon yet?”
“Dusty’s editor?”
He nods. “She’s out on leave—had her baby.”
And just like that, all the lean arms, nice fingers, and perfectly organized jars of pens and highlighters in the world aren’t enough to hold my attention.
“But she’s not due for another month,” I say, panicked. “We have another month to get Dusty edits.”
Another small tick. “Would you like me to call her and tell her that? Maybe something can be done—wait, do you have any connections at Mount Sinai Hospital?”
“Are you done?” I ask. “Or is there a second punch line to this hilarious joke?”
Charlie’s hands brace against the counter and he leans forward, voice going raspy, eyes crackling with that strange internal lightning. “I want it.”
I feel like I missed a step. “Wh-what?”
“Dusty’s book. Frigid. I want to work on it.”
Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure where that was going. And also: no way in hell.
“If we want to keep the release date,” Charlie goes on, “Sharon won’t be back in time to edit. Loggia needs someone to step in, and I’ve asked to do it.”
My mind feels less like it’s spinning than like it’s spinning fifteen plates that are on fire. “This is Dusty we’re talking about. Shy, gentle Dusty, who’s used to Sharon’s soothing, optimistic demeanor. And you, who—no offense—are about as delicate as an antique pickax.”
His jaw muscles flex. “I know I don’t have the best bedside manner. But I’m good at my job. I can do this. And you can get Dusty on board. The publisher doesn’t want to bump back the release date. We need to push this thing through, no delays.”
“It’s not my decision.”
“Dusty will listen to you,” Charlie says. “You could sell snake oil to a snake oil salesman.”
“I’m not sure that’s how the saying goes.”
“I had to revise it to accurately reflect how good you are at your job.”
My cheeks are on fire, less from the compliment than from a sudden vivid memory of Charlie’s mouth. The part where he staggered back from me like I’d shot him quickly follows.
I swallow. “I’ll talk to her. That’s all I can do.” By habit, I’ve unthinkingly flipped to the last page of Once. Now I thumb to the acknowledgments, letting my muscles relax at the sight of my name. It’s proof—that I am good at my job, that even if I can’t control everything, there’s a lot I can strong-arm into shape.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing here anyway, and how long do you have until the sunlight makes you burst into flames?”
Charlie folds his forearms on the counter. “Can you keep a secret, Stephens?”
“Ask me who shot JFK,” I say, adopting his own deadpan tone.
His eyes narrow. “Far more interested in how you got that information.”
“That one Stephen King book,” I reply. “Now, who are we keeping secrets from?”
He considers, teeth running over his full bottom lip. It’s borderline lewd, but no worse than what’s happening in my body right now.
“Loggia Publishing,” he replies.
“Okay.” I consider. “I can keep a secret from Loggia, if you make it juicy.”
He leans in closer. I follow suit. His whisper is so quiet I almost have to press my ear to his mouth to hear it: “I work here.”
“You . . . work . . . here?” I straighten up, blinking clear of the haze of his warm scent.
“I work here,” he repeats, turning his laptop to reveal a PDF of a manuscript, “while I’m technically working there.”
“Is that legal?” I ask. Two full-time jobs happening simultaneously seems like it might actually add up to two part-time jobs.
Charlie drags a hand down his face as he sighs exhaustedly. “It’s inadvisable. But my parents own this place, and they needed help, so I’ve been running the shop for a few months while editing remotely.”
He swipes the book off the counter. “You really buying this?”
“I like to support local businesses.”
“Goode Books isn’t so much a local business as it is a financial sinkhole, but I’m sure the tunnel inside the earth appreciates your money.”
“Excuse me,” I say, “did you just say this place is called Goode Books? As in your mother’s last name, but also good book?”
“City people,” he tuts. “Never stop to smell the roses, or look up to see the very prominently displayed signs over local businesses.”
I wave a hand. “Oh, I have the time. It’s just that the Botox in my neck makes it hard to get my chin that high.”
“I’ve never met someone who is both so vain and so practical,” he says, sounding just barely awed.
“Which will be what actually goes on my headstone.”
“What a shame,” he says, “to waste all that on a pig farmer.”
“You’re really hung up on the pig farmer,” I say. “Whereas Libby won’t be satisfied with me dating anyone but a widowed single father who rejected a country music career to run a bed-and-breakfast.”
He says, “So you’ve met Randy.”
I burst out laughing, and the corner of his mouth ticks.
Oh, shit. It is a smile. He’s pleased to have made me laugh. Which makes my blood feel like maple syrup. And I hate maple syrup.
I take a half step back, a physical boundary to accompany the mental one I’m trying to rebuild. “Anyway, I heard a rumor you’re hoarding the entire city’s internet here.”
“You should never believe a small-town rumor, Nora,” he chides.
“So . . .”
“The password is goodebooks,” he says. “All lowercase, all one word, with the e on goode.” He jerks his chin toward the café, brow arched. “Tell Principal Schroeder hi.”
My face prickles. I look over my shoulder toward a wooden chair at the end of an aisle instead. “On second thought, I’ll just set up there.”
He leans forward, dropping his voice again. “Chicken.”
His voice, the challenge of it, sends goose bumps rippling down my backbone.
My competitive streak instantly activates, and I turn on my heel and march into the café, pausing beside the occupied table.
“You must be Principal Schroeder,” I say, adding meaningfully, “Charlie’s told me so much about you.”
She seems flustered, almost knocking over her tea in her rush to shake my hand. “You must be his girlfriend?”
She absolutely heard my comment about the ravishing, and the hurricane.
“Oh, no,” I say. “We just met yesterday. But you come up a lot with him.”
I glance over my shoulder to see the look on Charlie’s face and know: I win this round.
“I wouldn’t call spending all day on your laptop ten feet from your New York nemesis ‘trying new things.’ ” Libby is absolutely delighted by the dusty old shop, less so by its cashier. “The last thing you need is to spend this whole vacation immersed in your career.”
I glance cautiously toward the doorway from the café (which sells only decaf and regular coffee) to the bookstore proper, making sure Charlie isn’t within earshot. “I can’t take a whole month off work. After five every day, I promise I’m yours.”
“You’d better be,” she says. “Because we have a list to get through, and that”—she tips her head in Charlie’s general direction—“is a distraction.”
“Since when am I distracted by men?” I whisper. “Have you met me? I’m here using the Wi-Fi, not giving out free lap dances.”
“We’ll see,” she says tartly. (Like, give it twenty minutes, and I will, in fact, be doling out lap dances in the local independent bookstore?)
She surveys our surroundings again, sighing wistfully. “I hate seeing bookstores empty.” Some of it might be the pregnancy hormones, but she’s legitimately tearing up.
“It’s expensive to keep shops like this up,” I tell her. Especially when so many people are turning to Amazon and other places that can afford to sell at a massive markdown. This kind of store is always the result of someone’s dream, and as with most dreams, it appears to be dying a slow, painful death.
“Hey,” Libby says. “What about number twelve?” At my blank stare, she adds, eyes sparkling, “Save a local business. We should help this place!”
“And leave the sacrificial goats to fend for themselves?”
She swats me. “I’m serious.”
I chance another glance in Charlie’s general direction. “They might not need our help.” Or want it.
She snorts. “I saw a copy of Everyone Poops shelved right next to a 1001 Chocolate Desserts cookbook.”
“Traumatizing,” I agree with a shudder.
“It’ll be fun,” Libby says. “I already have ideas.” She pulls a notebook from her purse and starts scribbling, teeth sunk into her bottom lip.
I’m not thrilled by the prospect of spending even more time within a ten-foot radius of Charlie after last night’s humiliating blip, but if this is what Libby really wants to do, I’m not going to let one kiss—that allegedly “never happened” anyway—scare me off.
Just like I’m not going to let it keep me from getting some work done today. People always talk about compartmentalization like it’s a bad thing, but I love the way that, when I work, everything else seems to get folded away neatly in drawers, the books I’m working on swelling to the forefront, immersing me every bit as wholly as reading my favorite chapter books did when I was a kid. Like there’s nothing to worry over, plan, mourn, or figure out.
I’m so engrossed I don’t even notice Libby’s paused her brainstorming to slip away, until she comes back some time later with a fresh iced coffee from across the street and a three-foot stack of small-town romance novels she’s culled from the Goode Books shelves.
“It’s been months since I read more than five pages in a sitting,” she says giddily. Unlike me, Libby does not read the last page first. She doesn’t even read the jacket copy, preferring to go in without any preconceived notions. Probably why she’s been known to throw books across the room.
“Once I tried to lock myself in the bathroom with a Rebekah Weatherspoon novel,” she says. “Within minutes, Bea wet herself.”
“You need a second bathroom.”
“I need a second me.” She opens her book, and I click over to a new browser, checking for new apartment listings. There’s nothing in Libby and Brendan’s price range that doesn’t look like an SVU crime scene set.
An email comes in from Sharon then, and I tap over to it.
She’s doing well, and so is the baby, though they both plan to be in the hospital for a bit, since he arrived prematurely. She’s sent me some pictures of his tiny pink face in its tiny little knit cap. Honestly, all newborns look more or less the same to me, but knowing he came from someone I like is enough to make my heart swell.
It constricts again when I read on and get to the part of the email dedicated to raving about Frigid. For a second, I’d almost forgotten that, in just over a year, everyone I’ve ever worked with will read about Nadine Winters. It’s that in-school-in-your-underwear nightmare times one hundred.
Even so, I feel a wash of pride when I read Sharon’s confirmation of what I already knew: this is the right book. There’s an unquantifiable spark in these pages, a sense of clarity and purpose.
Some books just have that inevitability from the beginning, an eerie déjà vu. You don’t know what’s going to happen, but you’re sure there’s no avoiding it.
Much like the rest of Sharon’s email:
We’d like to bring in our very talented new editor-at-large Charlie Lastra to get Dusty through the first round of major edits. I’ll send out another email making the introduction between them but wanted to mention to you first so you could prime the pump, so to speak.
Charlie’s fantastic at what he does. Frigid will be in excellent hands.
Flashes of Charlie’s excellent hands sizzle across my mind. I exit the email with the ferocity of a teenager slamming a door and screaming, You’re not my real dad!
If there’s anything more embarrassing than having a thinly veiled novel about you published, it’s probably having that book edited by a man who felt you up in a thunderstorm.
This is why the rules exist. To protect against this exact (okay, approximate) scenario.
There’s only one way to handle this. Be the shark, Nora.
I stand, roll my shoulders back, and approach the register.
“Is she going to buy any of those,” Charlie drawls, tipping his chin toward Libby’s tower of books, “or just get coffee all over them?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a natural at customer service?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Good. I know how you feel about liars.”
His lips part, but before he can retort, I say, “I’ll get Dusty on board—but I have a stipulation.”
Charlie’s mouth jams shut, his eyes going flinty. “Let’s hear it.”
“Your notes go through me,” I say. “Dusty’s first publisher did a real number on her psyche, and she’s just regaining her confidence. The last thing she needs is you bulldozing her self-esteem.” He opens his mouth to object, and I add, “Trust me. This is the only way it can work. If it can work at all.”
After a long moment of consideration, he stretches his hand across the desk. “Okay, Stephens, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
I shake my head. I won’t be making the mistake of touching Charlie Lastra again. “Nothing’s settled until I talk to her.”
He nods. “I’ll have my cocktail napkin and pen waiting for your signature.”
“Oh, Charlie,” I say. “How adorable that you think I’d sign a contract with anyone else’s pen.”
The corner of his mouth hitches. “You’re right,” he says. “I should’ve guessed.”
