This corner has extra twinkly lights, I notice when I get there, and there’s a plush rug laid down. Everything is comfortable and—andsomething.What’s the word I would use for this space?
“Isn’t this dreamy?” India says with a happy sigh from behind me, and I startle.
Yes. That’s the exact term.Dreamy.
“It is,” I admit. I hesitate and then go on, “Dreamy.”
I have never used that word in my life. I will tell no one it has now passed my lips.
I flop down onto the pink beanbag, and it swallows me whole. I’m going to have trouble getting back up. “I could nap here,” I say.
India nods enthusiastically. “Right?” she says. “And if you’re looking for romantic…” She waves around. “This is it. Look.” She takes a few steps closer and then lowers herself carefully onto the pink bag next to me, clearly doing her best not to land on top of me.
The beanbag readjusts itself to swallow both of us now, and I find my body tilting toward hers, our sides pressing together, our arms smooshed between us. If she were a woman I was romantic with, it would be easiest—totally natural—to pull her onto my lap instead.
Yes. India was right and I was wrong. This place is undeniably romantic.
“See?” she says from next to me, and I turn my head to look at her.
Close. She’s so close, her eyes bright and happy, her face refreshingly natural. I don’t mind makeup on a woman. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, I have no right to have an opinion about that at all. But there’s somethingfreshabout India—something easy and wholesome and effortless.
“A man and a woman could sit just like this,” she says. “They could read passages from their favorite books together. They could read love stories.”
“I saw a couple sit there one time and read fairy spice together,” Jess pipes up from our left, approaching through the shelves. “She kept giggling and talking aboutwingspan.”
This doesn’t mean much to me, but somehow I feel my cheeks heating anyway, and India shifts awkwardly next to me.
I clear my throat. “So tell me about this place,” I say.
Jess nods, leaning against a shelf and looking around. “I think we opened five years ago,” she says. “I haven’t worked here that whole time. I came two years ago. But she’s a bit of a novelty, which means we do steady business. It helps that it’s one of the only bookshops in Lucky. The bigger chains are all in Boulder.”
I make note of these facts, trying to commit them to memory so I can use them in the article. “And you’re organized by genre?” I say.
“By trope,” India corrects me.
Jess nods again. “It’s not a perfect system. I don’t know if we’ll stay this way forever. I kind of like it, though,” she says, lowering her voice, “because I can see what everyone is reading. I like to guess, sometimes, when they come in.”
India laughs. “I would probably do that too.”
“People will surprise you,” Jess says. “We keep our shelving sections strictly PG, but I saw a very prim, proper-looking woman one time march straight past the classics and head to the dark romance. I thought she was here forAnne of Green GablesorLittle Women.But nope—she was poking around the shelf with one of our age gap authors.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You know—Secret Baby for Daddy’s Motorcycle Bestie, or something.” Jess shrugs. “I waswayoff. Different strokes for different folks, am I right?”
She is right, but I am officially pressed too close to India for this conversation. In fact, I am tooeverythingfor this conversation, and I would love to talk about something else.
I heave myself to my feet with significant trouble, because this beanbag is a black hole intent on sucking me in forever, but I finally manage to stumble back upright. I brush my shirt off even though it’s not dirty, just to give me something to do with my hands, and then I turn to Jess.
“So you have classics, a section for brother’s best friend romances—what else is there?”
“Sports romances are big,” Jess says, ticking it off with one finger. “Romantic comedies are their own section. Workplace—we have a subsection for that within the rom com section. We carry some romantic suspense, but not a ton.” She shrug again. “The thing is, most romance novels contain more than one trope. So we sort of just do our best.”
I nod. “Well, I’ll check her out,” I say. “Thanks, Jess.”
She nods slowly and gives me a funny look before waving at India. “Let me know if you need anything!”
“I will,” India says as she stands up too, but her eyes are on me. Jess returns to her book behind the counter, and still India stares at me.
“What?” I say, a little defensive.
“You’ll checkwhoout?” she says instead of responding to my very reasonable question.
