The Wrong Mr. Right: A Small Town Friends to Lovers Romance (The Queen’s Cove Series Book 2)

ONLY IN MY worst nightmares would I make eye contact with Wyatt Rhodes while a customer read orc erotica to me.

“This is the part where I knew something was up,” Don, our town photographer and news blogger, said. He adjusted his reading glasses and ran his finger down the page of the book. “Yeuk gave an almighty roar and the surrounding forest shuddered. His gargantuan shaft sprayed semen all over Lady Nicoletta, so much semen. Buckets of—”

“Okay.” I held a hand up. “I get it, Don. Please stop.”

“I saw the cover and I thought it was like The Lord of the Rings.” He swallowed and stared out the front window of the shop, lost in thought and shaking his head a little. “It’s not,” he whispered. “It’s really not.” He flipped the page. Movement over his shoulder caught my eye.

Wyatt Rhodes stood shirtless in my bookstore, leaning on a bookshelf and watching us with amused curiosity. My stomach dropped through the floor.

Wyatt Rhodes was in my bookstore.

My gaze snagged on his abs. There were so many of them, stacked on top of each other like books on the shelf beside him. Abs for days.

Wyatt Rhodes owned a surf shop in town but spent most of his time on the water, training to go pro. He was over six feet, and the sun had lightened his dark blond hair. He always needed a haircut. He wore swim shorts and sneakers. He’d never been in Pemberley Books before and his gaze swept around the small space, taking in the worn carpet, the bookshelves in need of repair, and the stacks of books on the floor. Outside, the mural my mother commissioned twenty years ago was faded and crumbling.

Embarrassment twinged in my stomach, and my face warmed.

Why was he here? He didn’t even know my name.

I tucked my hands further into the sleeves of my oversized sweater.

“Listen to this part.” Don cleared his throat. “Lady Nicoletta shoved the great orc down on the bed with all her might. ‘Give me your seed, orc,’” he read in a higher-pitched voice, and Wyatt’s eyebrows shot up.

I was going to die, right here in the bookstore.

Don lowered his timbre to read the orc’s part. “‘Tiny human, my enormous pleasure wand is far too large for your tiny lady cavern. You will be destroyed by my enormous penis—’”

“Thank you, Don.” I snatched the book from him, opened the cash register, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill the store couldn’t afford to lose.

Don’s eyes widened when I slapped the money on the counter. “I don’t want a refund.”

A noise that sounded a lot like a snort came from Wyatt, but he covered his mouth with his hand. My gaze stayed glued to Don.

Don gestured at the shelves in the corner. “I just want you to move the others from the fantasy section. It should be in erotica.”

We didn’t have an erotica section because we were a small-town bookstore, but I nodded vehemently. Anything to end this interaction. “I will, right away. Thank you.”

Don gave me a sidelong look before taking his book back, tucking it safely under his arm and leaving the store.

Ignoring Wyatt still leaning on the bookshelf, looking like a Greek god, I shuffled over to the shelf where the orc books sat and gathered them into my arms. There were six books in the series, and Liya, the other employee here, must have purchased them thinking they were fantasy. I carried them back to the desk and deposited them. I’d find a spot for them in the sprawling romance section later.

Wyatt still stood there. What did he want? I couldn’t ignore him forever.

The universe must have heard my wish because the bell on the front door tinkled and Thérèse swept into the store in all her elegance, charisma, and style.

“My darling Hannah,” she sang, gliding over.

Thérèse Beauchamp was the most elegant woman I’d ever met. She was French, so she said my name like ‘annah. She was Black and wore her natural hair in a short, stylish cut, and often painted her mouth in blood-red lipstick that looked lovely against her deep skin tone. Thérèse always dressed as if she were about to step into a photoshoot. She was a social media influencer, so brands paid her to travel around the world, be gorgeous, and live a beautiful life.

Today, she wore faded, wide-leg blue jeans which fell above her ankles, a white silk button-up knotted at the waist, and black sandals. She clutched a black velvet bag under one arm and carried a paper shopping bag in the other. Her signature lipstick glowed with life in my shabby little store.

See? Simple, elegant, timeless. Sometimes, I didn’t know why she was even friends with me. We were so far apart in social status.

Thérèse breezed right past Wyatt and straight toward me. “Bonjour, Wyatt.”

He nodded to her. “Thérèse.” He didn’t move from his spot, still waiting for me.

I could escape out the back. Liya had left early but maybe if I went home too, he’d get the message and leave.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like Wyatt. Everyone liked Wyatt. He was impossible not to like.

It was that I had had a crush on Wyatt for as long as I could remember, and I had no freaking clue how to talk to him. I could barely look him in the eye. The only men I could talk to were the fictional ones from the books I sold.

“Come.” Thérèse gestured for me to follow her, and I shot a glance at Wyatt, still waiting and watching. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” I followed her to the back of the store, where two overstuffed blue chairs sat. These chairs were older than I was, and my friend Avery and I often hung out back here after hours, drinking wine while I played Spice Girls or showed her hilarious Scandinavian music videos. I lived with my dad in a tiny house a few blocks away, and until last year, Avery lived in a crappy old apartment that smelled like feet, so the back of the store was our hangout zone.

Thérèse took a seat and handed the bag to me. “My love, I will be flying back to Paris for the summer, and I’m not sure I’ll be home in time for your birthday.”

Cold dread trickled through me, and my throat constricted.

My thirtieth birthday was two months away, in September.

“Chanel has invited me for a residency at their fashion house.” Thérèse paused and tapped her chin with narrowed eyes. “Or perhaps it was Yves St. Laurent.” She tilted her head. “Gaultier? Mon dieu. I cannot remember.” She laughed at herself. “So many haute couture designers call my agent, I can’t keep them all straight.” She gestured at the bag. “Open it.”

I slid a white box from the bag and placed it on my lap. “What’s a residency?”

She waved a manicured hand with a sigh. “I sit around and they create couture dresses for the next season.”

I blinked. “You’re their muse?”

She shrugged in that casual French way of hers. “Something like that. Hannah, open the box.”

I flipped it open and my mouth fell open.

She made a noise of disappointment. “You hate it.”

“No,” I was quick to tell her. “It’s just…” The gold sequins sparkled even in the dim light as I lifted the dress, pinching the fabric of the sleeves like it would burn me.

It was a hot girl dress. The hem would fall around mid-thigh. Short sleeves. Deep V in the front. This dress was for a woman who wanted to be seen and adored. The dress was gorgeous, no doubt about that. Fun and flirty and wild and glamorous. Unfortunately, I was none of those things.

This was a Thérèse dress. This was not the right dress for me. I was shy, quiet Hannah Nielsen, the girl with her nose in a book.

Thérèse nodded with understanding. “You already have one like it.”

I snorted. “No. Definitely not.” I shot her a curious glance. “Thérèse. I’m grateful for the gift, but why did you choose a sparkly gold dress for—” I gestured at my oversized wool sweater, black jeans and white sneakers, the same outfit I wore every day. “—me?”

Thérèse smiled to herself and shot me an appraising expression. “I was in Sydney a few weeks ago, and when I saw this, I thought of you.” She propped an elbow on the chair arm and watched me. “I knew it was perfect for you.”

“If I wear this dress, everyone will look at me.” My skin crawled at the thought.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “So let them look. Make their view worth it.”

Thérèse had clearly hit her head and thought I was someone else. “I’ve always wanted to visit Sydney. I’ve heard the food is incredible.”

“It’s like Vancouver but warmer, and the people are much friendlier. I fell in love several times while I was there.”

“In love with people?”

She nodded with a serene, dreamy smile. “Oui.” She sighed. “I love falling in love. I’ve been in love many, many times.”

“Oh. Wow. I’ve never been in love.” I’d read about it hundreds of times in books. My mom had read me Pride and Prejudice when I was a kid, and the store was named after Darcy’s estate in the book. I loved reading about love.

But I’d never been in love. My heart twisted in longing at the reminder. When I returned to Queen’s Cove after university, I took over the daily running of the store so my dad could retire. For seven years, I’d been hiding in this dim little bookstore with shabby carpets, broken shelves, and peeling paint.

Thérèse tapped her chin again. “Oui, I do not think there are many eligible suitors waltzing into your store.” She gestured in the direction of the front door. “Hannah, you must go outside and find someone to fall in love with.”

I laughed. “Okay.” I flipped the box closed and tucked it back in the paper bag. “Thank you for the gift, Thérèse. It’s lovely.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Will you wear it?”

I nodded. “Sure.” Alone in my bedroom, maybe.

This seemed to satisfy her, so she stood and squeezed me tight in a hug. “Au revoir, Hannah. I’ll be back at the end of September.”

“Bye. Enjoy being a muse.”

“I always do.” She flashed me an effortless smile over her shoulder.

I followed her around the corner and my stomach dropped through the floor.

Wyatt Rhodes leaned on the front desk, reading the orc erotica with a small smile. Panic shot through me.

Thérèse disappeared out the door with the bell chiming, and I raced over to Wyatt and tried to snatch the book from his hand, but he held it out of my reach.

“May I please have that back?” I asked, trying to keep my voice polite. The panic rose through, though.

“So you do see me.” He shot me an amused look before reading from the book. “Yeuk and Gragol thrust their thick, monstrous members into Lady Nicoletta in tandem. Her cries of pleasure and delight echoed throughout the mountains—”

Oh my god.

“Wyatt.” I reached again for the book, but he turned away from me.

His eyebrows shot up and I was close enough to see how gray his eyes were. “You even know my name.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course I know your name. Now, give me the book.”

“Lady Nicoletta’s feminine cavern began to quake with the force of her pleasure—”

I grabbed for the book again, brushing his arm and practically hugging him from behind. My fingers made contact with the book, and I snatched it away before straightening up. My face was on fire once again.

I cleared my throat and set the book back on the pile. “Something I can help you with?”

“I’m here for the orc erotica.”

I gave him a flat look and he returned it with a lazy, amused grin. No doubt, he could see how red my face was.

“My mom asked me to pick her book up for her. She’s in Victoria until this evening and wanted to start it tonight. She said you told her it was in this morning.”

Victoria was the nearest city, a three-hour drive away. Wyatt’s mother, Elizabeth, a warm and funny woman, had ordered in a historical romance I recommended the month before. It had been on back-order from the publisher for a few weeks.

I located the book on the shelf behind me where we kept the special orders and handed it to him. “She’s already paid.”

“Great.” His gaze skimmed me, and I felt naked.

This was the difference between hot people like Thérèse and Wyatt, and myself. I peeked at people around bookshelves, shot quick glances when they weren’t looking. Wyatt and Thérèse stared openly, with zero shame or embarrassment.

One side of Wyatt’s mouth hitched. “Thanks, Hannah.”

It was the first time I’d ever heard him say my name. We’d gone to the same elementary school and the same high school, and now we both lived in our tiny coastal town of Queen’s Cove as adults, and not once had he said my name. The guy didn’t notice me most of the time because he was out surfing and I was here, in this musty old bookstore my mom opened when I was a baby.

The memory of his hand on my lower back was seared into my mind. Wyatt and I had been at Avery’s wedding last year. She married Wyatt’s brother, Emmett. When we signed the marriage certificate, Wyatt’s hand came to my lower back and he nudged me forward with a wink.

I still shivered, thinking about how warm his hand had been on my back, even through the fabric of my dress. The quick, roguish grin he had flashed me while I stood, mouth hanging open.

And now he was here in my old bookstore, standing shirtless with all his muscles and damp hair.

“You can’t be shirtless in here,” I blurted out. “It’s a health hazard.”

He raised an amused eyebrow. “A health hazard.”

My face heated and I said the first thing that came to mind. “You could get hair in the books.”

What?

“I could get hair… in the books,” he repeated, rolling his lips to hide a smile.

“Yep. Chest hair.”

He snorted and I wanted to sink into this ugly carpet from the nineties.

“Well, in that case, I’ll be going.” He turned and headed to the door, his network of back muscles moving as he walked. “Let me know if you find any chest hairs, I’ll come get them.”

He disappeared out the door and I could breathe again.

I spent the next few minutes clearing space in the romance section for the orc erotica. The romance section was growing and took up more shelves than crime and thrillers. That thought made me smug. Last year, the romance and erotica industry made double what crime and thrillers had made. Romance novels accounted for half our measly sales.

I wished we could only sell romance novels, but my dad wouldn’t like that. He didn’t have anything against romance novels themselves, he just didn’t want to change anything about the store. The store was my mom’s, and if we changed it, well, that was practically spitting on her grave.

A notification pinged on the store email, and I woke the computer up to check it.

My heart stopped.

Liya’s paycheck had bounced. There hadn’t been enough money in the account last night. My stomach knotted itself over and over as I rushed to transfer money from my savings back into the store account. She didn’t say anything today so maybe she hadn’t noticed yet. I transferred the amount to her manually and prayed she wouldn’t notice the first failed payment.

I guess I wouldn’t be taking a salary for the foreseeable future.

Disappointment bled into my stomach and I pressed my mouth into a tight line, scrolling through the accounts. My dad owned the building so there was no mortgage to pay, and we could thank the low property prices in Queen’s Cove in the nineties for that because there was no way we could have afforded it today. Utilities, Liya’s salary, taxes, fees for our credit card system, they added up to a total which exceeded our sales.

This was my mom’s store, and I was running it into the ground. My dad trusted me to carry on her dream, and whatever I was doing, it wasn’t enough.

Rocks churned in my stomach as I thought about how much she loved this store. She passed when I was sixteen from an aneurysm. She was folding laundry. I was at a friend’s house working on a school project, and my dad found her.

I shot a glance over to the blue squashy chairs where I would sit as a kid, reading and listening while she raced around the store, thrusting books into customers’ hands and talking as fast as she could. She loved books, she loved people, and she was lit from within with charisma, light, energy, and fun.

My mom was the life of the party. She used to throw them all the time here in the store, just for fun. Just because she could.

I smiled to myself at the memory.

One day, you’ll find your true love, just like Mr. Darcy, she would tell me, excitement lighting up her eyes.

My gaze flicked to the white shopping bag, still sitting on the blue chair. There were no customers left in the store, so I strolled over, brought it to the desk, slid the box out, and lifted the dress up once again.

It was dazzling.

My mom would totally wear a dress like this.

And if she saw me now, hiding in the bookstore, letting it fail, wasting my life? She’d be so disappointed.

I let out a long sigh, toying with this painful idea.

What would she do in this situation? She’d do everything she could to make the store successful again. And she’d go out and find someone to fall in love with.

When my mom was thirty, she had it all—a partner, me, a business she loved, and a great life. The store was hers, and my dad trusted me to run it.

I couldn’t let them both down, even if she was gone. I had to find a way to turn the store around.