Book Lovers

ICRAWL OUT OF bed at nine, my head pounding and my stomach feeling like a half-wrecked boat lost at sea. Apparently I drank enough to poison myself, without even getting past tipsy. One of the many ways that being thirty-two absolutely rules.

Libby’s already moving around downstairs, humming to herself. I’m not surprised—despite her panicky messages last night, she was already fast asleep and loudly snoring by the time I got home. Dusty had finally called me back, and I’d paced, damp, through the meadow for an hour, convincing her Part Two of Frigid couldn’t possibly be as bad as she was convinced it was. Bleary-eyed, I check my phone, and sure enough, the new pages are waiting in my inbox.

I am not ready for that. After pulling on leggings and a sports bra, I stagger outside, rubbing heat into my arms as I cross the meadow. I shamble through the woods, clutching my stomach, until the nausea eases enough to jog.

Okay, I think. This is going all right. It’s more of a positive affirmation than an observation. I follow the sloping path through the woods to the fence and make it three more paces before This is going all right becomes Oh, god, no. I pitch over my thighs and vomit into the mud just as a voice cuts through the morning: “You okay, ma’am?”

I whirl toward the fence, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

The blond demigod is leaning against the far side of the fence, no more than four feet away.

Of course he is.

“Fine,” I force out. I clear my throat and grimace at the taste. “Just drank a bathtub’s worth of alcohol last night.”

He laughs. It’s a great laugh. Probably his scream of terror is even fairly pleasant. “I’ve been there.”

Wow, he’s tall.

“I’m Shepherd,” he says.

“Like the . . . job?” I ask.

“And my family owns the stable,” he says. “Go ahead and laugh.”

“I would never,” I say. “I have a terrible sense of humor.” I start to stretch out my hand, then remember where it’s recently been (vomit) and drop it. “I’m Nora.”

He laughs again, a clear silver-bell sound. “You staying at Goode’s Lily?”

I nod. “My sister and I are visiting from New York.”

“Ah, big-city folk,” he jokes, eyes sparkling.

“I know, we’re the worst,” I play along. “But maybe Sunshine Falls will convert us.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’ll certainly do that.”

“Are you from here originally?”

“All my life,” he says, “minus a short stint in Chicago.”

“City life wasn’t for you?” I guess.

His huge shoulders lift. “Northern winters certainly weren’t.”

“Sure,” I say. I’m personally pro-season—but it’s a familiar complaint.

People basically leave New York because they’re cold, claustrophobic, tired, or financially overwhelmed. Over the years, most of my college friends frittered off to Midwestern cities that are less expensive or suburbs with huge lawns and white picket fences, or else left in one of the mass exoduses to L.A. that comes every few winters.

There are easier places to live, but New York’s a city filled with hungry people, their shared want a thrumming energy.

Shepherd pats the fence. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your . . .” I swear he glances toward my vomit pile. “. . . run,” he finishes diplomatically, turning to go. “But if you need a tour guide while you’re here, Nora from New York, I’m happy to help.”

I call after him. “How should I . . . get ahold of you?”

He looks back, grinning. “It’s a small town. We’ll run into each other.”

I take it as the world’s most gentle brush-off right up until the second he shoots me a wink, the first hot wink I’ve ever seen in real life.

Ever since I finished recounting what happened, Libby’s just been staring at me.

“What’s happening inside your brain right now?” I ask.

“I’m trying to decide whether to be impressed you went skinny-dipping, annoyed you went with Charlie, or just grovelingly sorry for setting you up on such a terrible date.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “I’m sure if I’d cut off the bottom six inches of my legs at the table, he would’ve been perfectly pleasant.”

“I’m so sorry, Sissy,” she cries. “I swear he seemed normal in his messages.”

“Don’t blame Blake. I’m the one with this giant flesh sack.”

“Seriously, what an asshole!” Libby shakes her head. “God, I’m sorry. Let’s just forget about number five. It was a bad idea.”

“No!” I say quickly.

“No?” She seems confused.

After last night, I would love to throw the towel in, but there’s also Charlie’s apartment to think about. If I back out of our deal now, then everything that happened was for nothing. At least this way, something good can come out of it.

“I’m gonna stick with it,” I say. “I mean, we have a checklist.”

“Really?” Libby claps her hands together, beaming. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you, Sissy, getting out of your shell—which reminds me! I spoke to Sally about number twelve, and she’d love help sprucing up Goode Books.”

“When did you even talk to her?” I say.

“We’ve exchanged a few emails,” she says with a shrug. “Did you know that she painted the mural in the children’s section of the shop?”

Considering Libby bakes her gluten-intolerant mail carrier a special pie every December, I shouldn’t be surprised she’s also having in-depth email correspondence with our Airbnb host.

My pulse spikes at the buzz of my phone. Mercifully, the message isn’t from Charlie.

It’s from Brendan. Which is rare. When you scroll through our thread, it’s a riveting back-and-forth of Happy birthday! interspersed with cute pictures of Bea and Tala.

Hi, Nora. Hope the trip is going well. Is Libby all right?

“What’s this about?” I hold my phone out, and she leans forward to read, her lips tightening to a purse.

“Tell him I’ll call him later.”

“Yes, ma’am, and which calls do you want forwarded to your office?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to go upstairs and get my phone right now. The world won’t end if Brendan doesn’t hear from me every twenty-five minutes.”

The impatience in her voice catches me off guard. I’ve seen her and Brendan argue before, and it’s basically like watching two people swing feathers in each other’s general direction. This is real irritation.

Are they fighting? About the apartment, or the trip, maybe?

Or is this trip happening because they’re fighting?

The thought instantly nauseates me. I try to put it out of my head—Libby and Brendan are obsessed with each other. I might’ve missed some things over the last few months, but I would’ve noticed something like that.

Besides, she’s been calling him every day.

Except you’ve never seen her call him. I’ve just assumed that somewhere, in those nine hours we’re apart each afternoon, she’s been talking to him.

A cold sweat breaks along the back of my neck. My throat twists and tightens, but Libby doesn’t seem to notice. She’s smiling coolly as she hauls herself out of her Adirondack chair.

You’re overthinking this. She just left her phone upstairs.

“Anyway, let’s go,” she says. “Goode Books isn’t going to save itself. Goode Books aren’t going to save themselves? Whatever. You get it.”

I type out a quick reply to Brendan. Everything’s good. She says she’ll call you later. He answers immediately with a smiley face and a thumbs-up.

Everything’s fine. I’m here. I’m focused. I’ll fix it.

I would like to say that, having realized everything at stake on this trip, the spell of Charlie Lastra instantly lifted. Instead, every time his eyes cut from Libby to me, there’s a flash in his irises that makes me wonder how long it would take to peel off my clothes.

“You want,” he drawls, eyes back on my sister, “to give Goode Books a makeover?”

“We’re giving it a head-to-toe revitalization.” Libby’s fingertips press together in excitement. Her skin is sun-kissed and the bags beneath her eyes are almost entirely gone. She looks not only rested but downright exhilarated by the opportunity to mop a dusty bookstore.

Charlie leans into the counter. “This is for the list?” His eyes tick toward mine, flashing again. My body reacts like he’s touching me. Our gazes hold, the corner of his mouth curving like, I know what you’re thinking.

“He knows about the list?” Libby asks, then, to Charlie, “You know about the list?”

He faces her again, rubs his jaw. “We don’t have a budget for ‘revitalization.’ ”

“All the furniture will be secondhand,” she says. “I have the thrift-store magic touch. I was grown in a lab for this. Just point us in the direction of your cleaning supplies.”

Charlie’s eyes return to me, pupils flaring. If I were to look down, I’m confident I’d find my clothes reduced to a pile of ash at my feet. “You won’t even know we’re here,” I manage.

“I doubt that,” he says.

Another “universal truth” Austen could’ve started Pride and Prejudice with: When you tell yourself not to think about something, it will be all that you can think about.

Thusly, while Libby’s running me ragged cleaning Goode Books, scrubbing scuff marks off the floor, I’m thinking about kissing Charlie. And while I’m reshelving biographies in the newly appointed nonfiction section, I’m actually counting how many times and where I catch him looking at me.

When I’m poring over the new portion of Frigid back in the café, tugging on its plot strings and nudging at its trapdoors, my mind invariably finds its way back to Charlie pinning me against a boulder, his rasp in my ear: It’s hard to think in words right now, Nora.

It’s hard to think, period, unless it’s about the one thing I should not be thinking about.

Even now, walking back into town with Libby for the “secret surprise” she planned for us, I’m only two-thirds present. Determined to wrangle that last third into submission, I ask, “Am I dressed okay?”

Without breaking stride, Libby squeezes my arm. “Perfect. A goddess among mortals.”

I look down at my jeans and yellow silk tank, trying to guess what they might be “perfect” for.

Out of the corner of my eye, I do another quick audit of her body language. I’ve been watching her closely since the weird text from Brendan, but nothing’s seemed amiss.

When we were kids, she used to beg Mrs. Freeman to let her reshelve books, and now her efforts to update Goode Books have turned her into bizarro Belle, right down to singing the “provincial life” song into her broom handle while Charlie shoots me fiery make-it-stop glares.

“I can’t help you,” I finally told him. “I have no jurisdiction here.”

To which Libby yelled from across the shop, “I’m a wild stallion, baby!”

When we finally left for the day, she forced me into Hardy’s cab to scout furniture at every secondhand shop in greater Asheville. Whenever we did find something perfect for the Goode Books café, Libby insisted on 1) haggling and 2) talking to literally everyone, about literally anything.

The work has energized her, whereas I’m fervently hoping tonight’s surprise excursion ends at Sunshine Falls’s lone spa. Though it is called Spaaaahhh, which gives me pause. It’s unclear whether that’s meant to be read as a sigh or a scream. Either the same deranged person owns that, Mug + Shot, and Curl Up N Dye, or there’s something extremely punny in the Sunshine Falls water supply.

Libby passes Spaaaahhh and we round the corner to a wide, pink-brick building with two-story arched windows, a gabled roof, and a bell tower. On one side sits a half-full parking lot, and on the other, a few kids with dirt-smeared knees play kickball in an overgrown baseball diamond with gnats swarming the fence behind home plate.

“Here for the big game?” I ask Libby.

She tugs me up the building’s steps and into a musty lobby. A horde of teens in ballet tights runs past, shrieking and laughing, to race up the stairwell on our right. A half dozen younger kids in colorful leotards are sprawled on the floor wiping down blue gymnastics mats.

Libby says, “I think it’s through there.” We step over and around the tiny gymnasts and turn through another set of doors into a spacious room filled with echoing chatter and folding chairs. To my relief, no one is wearing a leotard, so probably we’re not here for a pregnant gymnastics class, which definitely strikes me as something Libby would sign us up for.

I spot Sally near the front, grabbing an older blond man’s shoulder as she laughs (and, I’m pretty sure, sucks on a vape pen). A few rows behind her are the hip Mug + Shot barista with the septum ring and Amaya, Charlie’s Pretty Bartender Ex.

Libby pulls me into the last row, where we take two seats just as someone pounds a gavel at the front of the room.

There’s a stage there, but the podium sits on the ground, level with the chairs. The woman behind it has the largest, reddest hair I’ve ever seen, the only lights on in the room shining on her like a diffused spotlight.

“Let’s get started, people!” she barks, and the crowd quiets as piano music seeps down from upstairs.

I lean into Libby, hissing, “Did you bring me to a witch trial?”

“The first item we’re considering,” the redhead says, “is a complaint against the business at 1480 Main Street, currently known as Mug and Shot.”

“Wait,” I say. “Are we—”

Libby shushes me just as the barista leaps out of her seat, spinning to a balding man a few seats over. “We’re not changing our name again, Dave!”

“It sounds,” Dave booms, “like a place for vagabonds and criminals!”

“You weren’t happy with Bean to Be Wild—”

“It’s a weak pun,” Dave reasons.

“You threw a fit when we were Some Like It Hot.”

“It’s practically pornographic!”

The redhead pounds the gavel. Amaya pulls the barista back into her seat. “We’ll put it to a vote. All in favor of renaming Mug and Shot.” A few hands go up, Dave’s included. She pounds the gavel again. “Motion dismissed.”

“There is absolutely no way any of this holds up in a court of law,” I whisper, amazed.

“What’d I miss?”

I jump in my seat as Charlie slides into the chair beside me. “Not much. ‘Dave’ simply filed a motion to rename every Peter in town to something less pornographic.”

“Did anyone cry yet?” Charlie asks.

“People cry?” I whisper.

He drops his mouth beside my ear. “Next time try not to look so excited at the thought of misery. It’ll help you blend in better.”

“Considering we’re in the hecklers-only section of the crowd, I’m not all that worried about blending in,” I whisper back. “What are you doing here?”

“My civic duty.”

I fix him with a look.

“There’s a vote my mom’s excited about. I’m nothing but a hand in the air. I’m glad I came now though—I finished the new pages. I’ve got notes.”

I spin toward him, the end of my nose nearly brushing his in the dark. “Already?”

“I think we should try starting the book at Nadine’s accident,” he whispers.

I laugh. Several people in the row in front of us glare at me. Libby smacks me in the boob, and I smile apologetically. When our audience returns to watching the new argument at the front of the room, between a man and woman whose combined age must top two hundred, I face Charlie again, who smirks. “Guess you needed help blending in after all.”

“The accident’s fifty pages in,” I hiss back. “We lose all context.”

“I don’t think we do.” He shakes his head. “I’d like to at least suggest it to Dusty and see what she thinks.”

I shake my head. “She’ll think you hate the first fifty pages of the one hundred she’s sent you.”

“You know how badly I wanted this book,” he says, “just based on those first ten. I simply want it to be its best version, same as you. And Dusty. By the way, what did you think about the cat?”

I worry at my lip and get a shot of pure, undiluted satisfaction at the way he watches the action. I let the pause go longer than is strictly natural. “I’m worried it feels too similar to the dog in Once.”

Charlie blinks. I see the moment he finds his place in the conversation again. “My thoughts exactly.”

“We’d have to see where she plans to take it,” I say.

“We just mention the similarity and let her make the call,” he agrees.

The redhead pounds her gavel, but the old man and woman at the front keep shouting at each other for twenty more seconds. When she finally gets them to stop, they—no joke—nod, take each other’s hands, and head back to their seats together. “This is like something out of Macbeth,” I marvel.

“You should see how holiday event planning goes,” he says. “It’s a bloodbath. Best day of the year.”

I smother a laugh with the back of my hand. His face twitches, and my heart flutters at the extraordinarily pleased look on his face. In my mind I hear him saying, You’re way more fun this way.

I turn away before the look can sink any deeper into my bloodstream.

“What did you make of Nadine’s motivations?” he whispers, managing to make the words sound innately sexual. Four different points on my body start tingling.

Focus. “For which part?”

“Running across the street before the sign changed to WALK,” he clarifies, the decision that lands Nadine in the hospital, when a bus clips her.

That’s right: my proxy nearly dies fifty pages into the book. Or on page one, if Charlie has his way.

“I wonder if having her be in a legitimate rush undermines Dusty’s argument,” I whisper. “We’re supposed to think this woman is a cold, selfish shark. Maybe she should be rushing for rushing’s sake, because that’s what she does.”

I swear Charlie’s eyes flash in the dark. “You would’ve made a good editor, Stephens.”

“And by that,” I say, “you mean you agree with me.”

“I think we need to see Nadine exactly as the world sees her, before the curtain gets pulled back.”

I study him. He’s got a point. It’s always a strange thing, working with only a chunk of a book, not knowing for certain what comes next—especially for someone who doesn’t even like reading that way—but I know Dusty’s writing like my own heartbeat, and I have a sense Charlie’s right on this one.

“So,” he whispers, “you’ll tell her about the first fifty?”

“I’ll ask her,” I parry. Even when we’re agreeing with each other, our conversations feel less like we’re taking turns carrying the torch and more like we’re playing table tennis while said table is on fire.

Charlie holds out his hand to shake on it. I hesitate before sliding my palm into his, this one careful touch unraveling pieces of the other night across my mind like film reels. His pupils expand, the golden wisps around them smoldering, and his pulse leaps at the base of his throat.

Being able to read each other so well is going to make this “business relationship” complicated.

Where his thigh not quite touches mine, it feels like a piping hot knife held against butter.

Someone near the front of the room gives a hacking stage cough that pops the bubble. All around us, arms are in the air—including Libby’s. Sally is twisted around in her chair, coughing in our direction, her hand over her head.

Charlie jerks his hand free and thrusts it up. Sally’s eyes cut to mine next, almost pleading. When I lift my hand, she grins and spins back around in her chair.

While the red-haired woman is counting the votes, I lean in to ask Libby, “What exactly are we voting on?”

“Weren’t you listening? They’re putting a statue in the town square!”

“Of what?”

Charlie snorts. Libby beams. “What else?” she says. “Old Man Whittaker and his dog!”

A literal statue to Once in a Lifetime.

I turn to Charlie, ready to taunt him, but he meets my gaze with a wicked smile. “Go ahead and try, Stephens; nothing is going to ruin my night.”

My adrenaline spikes at the challenge, but this is too dangerous a game for me to play with him, when my grip on self-control is already so tenuous. Instead I force a placid, professional smile and turn back to face the front of the room.

I spend the rest of the meeting stuck in a worse game with myself: Don’t think about touching Charlie’s hand. Don’t think about the lightning strikes in Charlie’s eyes. Don’t think about any of it. Focus.