“Yes,” Wren sighs. “I already feel a hundred weeks, but I’m not even seven yet, so this pregnancy should last three to five business years.”
“I want a baby,” Alicia says, her eyes wide and round like a doe’s. “I’m calling Felix.”
Alicia started this book club two years ago after reading an article online about these women in Chicago who started a romance book club to set higher standards for themselves and keep each other accountable while dating. There’s no passing up red flags when you’re reading about a man written by a woman with your best girlfriends. She wanted to recreate that here in Fontana Ridge.
And it worked for her. Three months ago, we showed up at her wedding with special editions of her favorite books and a promise that Holden would build a home library for her while she and Felix were on their honeymoon.
Nora laughs, tears in her eyes, and draws Wren into a hug. “I’m so happy for you, friend. You can have all of my hand-me-downs.”
“And we’ll throw you the best baby shower,” Alicia promises.
Wren pulls back, wiping her silver-lined eyes with the backs of her fingers. “I’m too hormonal for this right now. Let’s talk about books.”
The two hours I spend at book club every month make me feel alive in a way not much else does. Flowers were my first love: I have fond memories of hours spent in the garden with Mom, where we spent most of our scarce one-on-one time. I didn’teven like doing it at first, and looking back now, I’m sure she was sad to give up her only child-free activity, but she never acted like it. She was patient with me, showing me how to prune the plants and pick weeds, when and where to plant each flower so it would flourish. It was our time, and I grew to love it more than she ever did. I took it into my own hands when Holden and I got older and Mom had to pick up extra shifts so she could afford all of our extracurricular activities.
Flowers are my safe and happy place. I’ve always known that as long as I take care of them, put the time and the work into them, they’ll bloom for me. I never expected to find anything else that made me feel quite like they do.
Until book club. I didn’t think I was going to enjoy reading. I didn’t when I was in high school, when I was forced to read the classics and write papers on them. When all the kids in my elementary school were excited about the book fair, I was patiently counting down the days until our annual field trip to the botanical gardens or Misty Grove, the orchard and flower farm that Stevie’s parents own and operate. Other than the books I’d check out about flowers and gardening, I was never interested in the idea of sitting down to read.
But when Nora talked me into joining this book club for single women (even though she was happily married and pregnant with her second child), I fell in love for the second time in my life. This time with reading.
There’s something about reading books that are guaranteed to end in a happily ever after. Sure, they’re sometimes over-the-top or unrealistic, but for a romantic like me, they’re hopeful. Everyone always gets what they’re looking for, or at least what they didn’t know they needed. Everyone gets their happy ending. Everyone is enough.
Which is why, when the storefront next to mine became available, I had an idea. A passion project, really. Somethingelse to sink all my lonely free time into. A bookstore. Where I can be surrounded by books that make me happy, that make me hopeful, that make me believe that, one day, I’ll find someone I’m enough for.
The only problem is that I have absolutely no idea how to run a bookstore. Though that doesn’t stop me from sneaking into the empty store and imagining the possibilities.
That’s what I’m doing when I leave book club two hours later, just as the sun is starting to lower toward the horizon, bathing my little mountain town in shades of pinks and oranges and purples. Everything has that hazy, lovely glow that feels like long, carefree summer nights. But all I want to do is lock myself in a dusty, empty shop and daydream about filling it with books.
I glance over my shoulder as I near the store. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong. When I told my landlord that I was thinking about renting the space next door, he gave me a key and told me to take all the time I needed. I don’t think he expected me to disappear in here multiple times a week, but that’s neither here nor there.
No, I’m sneaking around because if anyone in town sees me, they’ll want to know what I’m scoping it out for. And then every Fontana Ridge resident will know that I’m thinking about opening a bookstore, and they’ll organize some kind of fundraiser to make it happen. Then when the shop fails because I haveno ideawhat I’m doing, I’ll have let everyone down.
So it’s easier this way.
When I determine that the coast is clear, I let myself into the building and shut the door behind me. It creaks on its hinges. That should probably be fixed, but I kind of love the idea of working in a bookstore where the front door creaks every time it opens and closes.
The roll-up blinds are covering the windows, so no one can see when I flip on the overhead lights and examine the large,empty space. It’s bigger than my flower shop, but not by much. Meaning that adding shelves and books would make it feel cramped in the best kind of way. Cozy. I can imagine the vibe perfectly, how I would paint it to match Unlikely Places. I’d have quotes from my favorite books hanging in mismatched frames on the walls. There’d be a drink station too. Nothing much, just high-quality drip coffee and a kettle and tea bags, so people would feel comfortable settling on the thrifted couches and armchairs with a good book.
The door creaks behind me, interrupting my thoughts, and I spin around on my heel, a phantom shock zipping up my spine at the sight of Grey standing in the doorway. My surprise dissolves quickly, and I tug him inside by the front of his shirt, glancing behind him to make sure no one noticed before shutting the door swiftly behind him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, turning my full attention on him now that the coast is clear.
He leans back against the door, never able to stand up straight when there’s a surface to prop himself against, and gives me an equally questioning look. “Funny, I came here to ask you the same thing.”
I didn’t end up playing poker at the station last night, because as soon as the cards were dealt, they got an emergency call and had to head out. I was surprised when I felt a little sad about it on the quiet walk back to my apartment. Whatever desire I had to spend time with him yesterday evening has dissolved today, though, because he should not behere.
I cross my arms, my expression flattening. “You’re not my keeper.”
His mouth tips in a slow smile, the one that makes everyone melt for him. “No, just your boyfriend.”
My eyes roll so hard I see stars. “It’s none of your business.”
He glances around the empty space, blue eyes assessing in that natural way of his. He’s always so mussed, so casual, but he misses nothing. It’s contradictory. And annoying.
“Meeting someone here for a clandestine hook-up?” he asks, his gaze falling back on me. It makes my insides feel mushy in a way I don’t feel like contemplating. “You should have let me know. I could have helped out.”
I let out a deeply aggrieved sigh. “You make me tired.”
