“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.