Brandishing the new crime thriller overhead with enough enthusiasm to dislodge her signature chignon, Mia sank onto the sofa beside Kennedy and kicked off her high heels.
“Don’t judge me,” she said, catching my eye as she cracked open the book like a junkie with her drug. “I’ve been waiting for this for two years.”
I laughed. “I’m not judging.” After all, I’d once felt that way about Miranda Lockhart books.
Sloane took her books from the box and perched on the arm of a club chair.
Gabi sighed as she pulled her books from the box and tossed them aside with a grunt.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Gabi.
Sloane glanced at Gabi’s pile. “I thought you loved those alpha bears.”
Gabi grabbed the top book from the stack and half-heartedly flipped it over to read the description. “I have to fire Fred Morales,” she said.
“The hot Spanish teacher? What happened?”
Two splotches of color burst to life on Gabi’s cheeks. “I walked in on him getting a blow job from some busty bimbo.”
My eyes bugged.
“What exactly did you see?” Sloane asked.
“Everything.” Gabi fanned her flaming cheeks. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t unsee it.” Her entire face burned with color. “It was like watching live porn. It was…” She shook her head, unable to finish.
Mia glanced up from her book, eyeing Gabi with a knowing smile. “Looks like you don’t want to forget it.”
Gabi glared at Mia. “It was extremely unprofessional. Right there on his desk.” She fanned her face more aggressively. “He had his legs spread, and she was on her knees.”
Mia laughed. “You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.” Gabi buried her face in her hands. “I need a distraction.” She peeked through her fingers. “What books did you get, Lacey?”
I dug in the box. Moving aside a biography of a famous astronaut, which must be Thatcher’s, I saw that the box was empty. “They must be in a different shipment.”
I’d been hoping for something fantastic. I was desperate for a new author to replace Miranda Lockhart.
When Thatcher strolled into the reading nook a few minutes later, he was empty handed.
“Where are the rest of the books?”
Thatcher lifted the biography and flipped through the pages, not meeting my eye.
“Thatcher?” I waved a hand in front of his face to get his attention. “Where are my books?”
“Not here yet.”
“Are you still mad because I switched around the non-fiction section?”
Ever since Thatcher had promoted me to assistant manager, I’d been trying to implement improvements. Sometimes Thatcher didn’t agree, and we ended up butting heads.
Thatcher’s eyes met mine briefly, and he shook his head. “No. I’m not mad. Be right back.”
Dropping the book to the coffee table, he hurried into the heart of the store, disappearing behind the tall shelves.
“What’s he up to?”
“Beats me.” Kennedy came up for air from her book. “He was acting strange at yoga class earlier. He kept leaving the room. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me I’d find out soon enough.”
