I can see it and smell it already, and I gasp. “That sounds perfect! I’ll talk to Noah about it.”
“You don’t need to talk to Noah about it,” Cassandra says, startling me.
I turn to face her, wondering how to thank her for the sage without revealing too much. But she continues. “It’s your shop, too, now. And heneeds youto bring in these ideas and implement them.”
“Oh! I’ve been telling him so many times that the store needs a little something-something,” Ms. Angela calls out from the back of the line. “But does he listen?”
I give my aunt a warm smile. I’ve occasionally been a witness to her loud opinion-sharing in the middle of the store and can see where a lighter touch might have worked better on Noah. “Speaking of which, I should go,” I say as I pay for Sophie’s coffee—mine is on the house, Millie says as she hands it to me in my gorgeous new travel mug.
“Yup, Sophie’s all ready for you,” Ms. Angela says. “Just came from there. Love what you’re doing.”
“What are you doing?” Millie and Cassandra ask.
Ms. Angela waves me away. “You go on, I’ll fill them in. You got your work cut out for yourself.”
I can’t help but laugh at that as I thank her. I dash out of Easy Monday, hearing Ms. Angela explaining my whole plan to everyone who wants to hear.
As I pull the bright yellow door shut behind me, the rear lights of a red Mercedes flash as the car pulls out of the parking lot. An uneasy feeling spreads through me, but I shrug off the goosebumps. It’s a small town. Bumping into the same people comes with the territory.
When I get back to the library, the stack of photographs is ready. Sophie also printed a bunch of little stars with the words, “Willow Callaway is working her magic”.
She thanks me for the coffee. “I wish I could take a break with you, but it’s story time,” she says, pointing to a group of toddlers sitting cross-legged in the mezzanine, quietly waiting for her—the poster image of adorableness.
I hurry to the store with a smile on my lips, eager to get to work. But first, I go straight to Noah’s office to run my plan by him.
“Close the door,” he says once I’m done talking, his tone stern.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a sip from my coffee for countenance.
He frowns. “What’s that?” His gaze is narrowed on the mug. More specifically, on the words Willow Callaway.
I feel myself blush. Well, this is embarrassing. “I-it’s a gift from Millie. Obviously, I couldn’t say no…”
“Why would you say no? It’s…” His words trail off. “Did you choose it?”
Why is he asking me that? “Well, yes, but then she wrote my name on it… well, that name and uh…”
“It’syourname. You don’t like it?” he asks.
Willow Callaway.Of course I like it. I love it. It runs over my tongue like a brook in spring. It’s-it’s-it’s… But I don’t know what to say to him. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. There will be a real Mrs. Noah Callaway, someday, and in all likelihood her first name will not be Willow. So in a sense, this feels like a fraud.
But I like it.
“You like it,” he states, as if I’d spoken out loud, which I definitely did not. “Now, onto the other thing.”
What other thing?
“You do not ask me for permission to do anything, Willow.My wifedoesn’t need my permission. Ifmy wifethinks the window displays need to be changed, then they do. Ifmy wifedecides she’s doing it, then she is.” I’m pretty sure half the store heard this, on account of the wooden walls that enclose his office space. His voice softens when he adds, “Are we good?”
I’m burning up right now with all his “my wife” statements. It’s hot. It’s possessive. Even when he’s telling me I don’t need his permission, it feels like I belong to him in a way I can’t explain.But of course, that’s just what’s going on inmymind right now. Because whathe’sdoing is making sure we project the image of the perfect couple, and in what perfect couple in this century does the wife ask her husband for permission to do anything?
“Are we good?” he repeats even softer, and I swear I feel something hot going from his gaze straight through my center.
I lower my voice so only he can hear me. “What if your wife wants to sleep on the couch?”
twenty-seven
Noah
