A chalkboard menu behind the counter lists the fall coffee offerings with the creativity of someone who’s clearly spent quality time thinking about seasonal beverage puns—witch’s brew mocha with ghost-shaped marshmallows, zombie zinger espresso with four shots guaranteed to wake the dead, phantom pumpkin spice latte topped with cinnamon grave dust, and moonlight maple macchiato served in a mug rimmed with maple sugar.
For the hungrier patrons, a sandwich menu offers equally themed fare that suggests someone has a sense of humor about their food—the mummy melt (bandaged in melted cheese), the werewolf wrap (guaranteed to satisfy even the most ravenous appetite), and the best-selling Frankenstein flatbread (a monstrous creation pieced togetherfrom various ingredients that somehow works despite defying all culinary logic).
The place is larger than it looks from the outside and extends surprisingly deep into the building, a bona fide bookstore with cozy reading nooks tucked into corners, plush armchairs that look like they’d swallow you whole in the best way possible, and soft instrumental music playing just loud enough to mask the sound of turning pages but not so loud as to disturb concentration.
“Geez. I haven’t been inside recently, but it’s just the way I remember—and better,” I whisper to no one in particular, feeling a pang of guilt that I haven’t patronized this local gem more often. Mental note: buy at least three books before leaving.
Mom takes the stroller and immediately leads baby Ella off to the children’s book section, cooing something about starting her library early and probably planning to buy enough board books to stock a small daycare.
Georgie makes a beeline for what she refers to as thesteam reads, which I suspect is not a section dedicated to books about locomotives, based on the way she’s waggling her brows.
I hang back, watching as Buffy rings up her customer’s purchases with quick, efficient movements that suggest she’s been doing this long enough to make it look effortless. She’s wearing a dark green sweater today that matches the velvet bow holding back her long dark hair, and there’s something about her that seems more relaxed here among the books than she did at the festival.
This is clearly her natural habitat—surrounded by stories, coffee, and the kind of peaceful atmosphere that makes you want to curl up with a good book and forget the outside world exists.
As the customer leaves, Buffy looks up and spots me with the kind of recognition that suggests she’s been expecting this visit. A flicker of something flashes across her face, but it’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. She makes her way around the counter, straightening a display of Halloween-themed bookmarks as she approaches like someone buying time to compose herself.
“Bizzy, welcome to Sea Beans and Books,” she says as her blue eyes meet mine with an intensity that catches me off guard. “Can I help you find something?”
Why do I have a feeling the thing she’s looking for is me?Buffy thinks to herself as she politely sizes me up.
And there it is—the first real hint that Buffy Butterwick might be more than just a book-loving paranormal enthusiast with excellent taste in seasonal beverages.
The question now is whether she’s hiding a deadly secret behind those stacks of carefully arranged bestsellers, or if she’s simply another player in Heath Cullen’s twisted game who happened to get caught up in something bigger than she bargained for.
Either way, I intend to read her like an open book.
CHAPTER 11
The interior of Sea Beans and Books wraps around us like a literary hug—warm, comforting, and smelling of freshly printed pages and cinnamon.
Halloween has clearly staged a takeover here, with paper bats dangling from the ceiling on nearly invisible fishing lines, making them appear to flutter with each draft from the door. Either that or the local bat population has developed a serious reading habit. Miniature pumpkins crowd the checkout counter, their faces ranging from adorably goofy to surprisingly sinister. String lights in orange and purple cast a festive glow over the bookshelves, and a collection of ceramic witches rides broomsticks along the top of the display cases, presumably commuting to their day jobs in retail.
Buffy stands before me in her dark green sweater, a question in her startlingly blue eyes that suggests she’s either genuinely curious or calculating how quickly she can escape this conversation. I notice now that her cheeks are dusted with freckles so faint they’re almost imperceptible unless you’re standing close enough to count them. She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear and waits for my response with the patience of someone who’s dealt with plenty of indecisive customers.
“Actually,” I begin, remembering why we came here in the first place, “I was hoping we could chat for a minute? About last night?”
She winces and her eyes flicker with something I can’t quite read.The human face is capable of such micro-expressions that sometimes even my mind-reading abilities can’t keep up with the emotional gymnastics happening beneath the surface.
“Oh,” she says, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “Of course.” She casts a glance at the old-fashioned clock on the wall behind her. “I’m actually due for a break. Can I get you something to drink? Maybe something sweet to go with it?”
“That would be great,” I nod, grateful for the offer. “Whatever you recommend.”
“The phantom pumpkin spice latte is our specialty,” she says with a small smile. “Extra whipped cream?”
“Is there any other way to have it?” I reply, and she laughs—a genuine sound that momentarily transforms her face into something lighter and far less guarded.
It’s clear coffee and books are her love language—and quite possibly whipped cream. I like her better already.
While Buffy prepares our drinks, I scan the store for Mom and Georgie and quickly spot them both. Mom has settled into a rocking chair in the children’s section with Ella dozing in her arms while she reads quietly from a picture book.
Georgie, on the other hand, has managed to corner a young male employee near the romantic fiction section. The poor guy can’t be more than twenty-two, and Georgie leans against the bookshelf like the man-eater she is. The employee’s face has turned roughly the same shade as theSpooky Readssignage, which could be from embarrassment, terror, or the unfortunate realization that he’s key to some geriatric fantasy.
Georgie is a pro at making men blush, I’ll give her that.
She looks my way and winks.He thinks I’m his grandmother’s age,her thought floats to me across the store.Little does he know, I’m more of a cougar than a granny. I am Georgie, hear me roar. And wait till he sees my bite.
I stifle a laugh and turn my attention back to Buffy, who is now loading a tray with our drinks and what appears to be two cobweb cupcakes, the spun-sugar decorations glistening under the shop lights like edible Halloween jewelry. The presentation is so artful, italmost makes me feel guilty about planning to inhale them in approximately thirty seconds.
