Dating by the Book
Page 1
Praise for Mary Ann Marlowe’s Some Kind of Magic
“Marlowe makes a name for herself in this hilarious and sexy debut. . . . It’s filled with frisky sexy scenes set to the backdrop of rock music, and Marlowe makes the chemistry scientific and literal in this fun read.”
—Booklist STARRED REVIEW
“Fun, flirty read about a magical romance . . . a lighthearted pick me up. Eden and Adam’s chemistry was so electric—I rooted for them the whole way!”
—FIRST for Women
“This love potion romance, which pairs up the lead singer for a rock band with a biochemist who’s also an amateur singer/songwriter, is light and fluffy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This fun, romantic and sexy novel explores the instant connection that manifests between two people and what happens next. The chemistry between Adam and Eden is instant and electric, and watching them bring out the best in each other gives the story warmth along with the heat.... This love story will make readers smile!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Frisky, Flirty Fun!”—Stephanie Evanovich, New York Times bestselling author of The Total Package
Please turn the page for more praise for Some Kind of Magic
“Sexy, engaging and original. I completely fell in love with Eden and Adam. An amazing first novel.”
—Sydney Landon, New York Times bestselling author of Wishing for Us
“Marlowe is a deft, compelling writer with a modern, confident voice. I got swept up completely in Eden’s journey. . . . Through the layering of detail and humanity, Marlowe manages to take a seemingly outlandish premise and make it real.... And through it all she weaves a beautiful love story that you can’t help but champion! A smartly written, entertaining debut!!”
—Robinne Lee, author of The Idea of You
Books by Mary Ann Marlowe
Some Kind of Magic
A Crazy Kind of Love
Dating by the Book
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
DATING BY THE BOOK
MARY ANN MARLOWE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
DATING BY THE BOOK
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Teaser chapter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Mary Ann Marlowe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1822-8 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1822-4 (ebook)
Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2019
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1821-1
To editors: for shaping our words
To book bloggers: for sharing our works
To readers: for inhabiting our worlds
Chapter 1
The vandals had struck again. With a shaky R scrawled on the window pane, they’d redubbed my bookstore the Mossy Stoner.
Hilarious.
This sort of thing never used to happen in the sprawling metropolis of Orion—“the small town with the big heart.” But over the past few months, I’d scraped unwanted paint off the window three times. At least the latest effort was somewhat clever. Three weeks ago, they’d doodled a crude dick and balls under the Y. Kids.
I fetched my maxed-out Visa card and scratched at the graffiti, thankful they’d only defiled the glass. If they’d painted on the wood, I would’ve gone Javert on the miserable twerps.
Once I’d more or less rectified the problem, I fished out my keys, but the front door refused to open even when I bumped it with my shoulder. Great. Another problem to fix.
I gave one good hip slam, and I was inside. All at once, a sense of home settled over me. I breathed in the peace like a meditation.
Every morning, as I walked across the threshold into my sanctuary, I said two prayers. First, I’d offer up thanks to the gods for the bookstore that was (mostly) mine now. Second, I’d send out a plea to the universe to drive customers my way so I could keep it. I’d already sacrificed so much to fulfill my dream, failure would be beyond heartbreaking. It would crush my soul.
Six months ago, my fiancé had begged me to abandon my small-town business and follow him to his preferred life in the city. Stubborn as always, I chose to stay. Ever since our paths had forked, I inhabited a strange new dimension where one-half of my dreams could come true, but at the cost of the other, like an ironic twist out of an O’Henry short story. Yeah, I had my bookstore, but because of the same, I’d lost one husband. I wasn’t even a widow; I was a never-married. I should have been Mrs. Peter Mercer. Instead, I was still Miss Madeleine Hanson.
I dragged a couple of tables outside with sales books, then grabbed my sidewalk sign and knelt down to chalk in the daily deal. TAKE AN EXTRA 15% OFF CLEARANCE BOOKS. As much as I hated practically giving books away, my shelves were bursting with unsold merchandise.
A gentle breeze stirred, and I closed my eyes to appreciate the dawning warmth of the morning sun, but then I caught the aroma of fresh-baked croissants from Gentry’s French bistro, and my nose wrinkled. The no doubt delicious pastries smelled rancid to me, since they would lure all the morning traffic away from my pitiful café.
As if my thoughts had conjured it, a white panel van pulled up to the curb, and I shaded my eyes to watch Max Beckett jump out. He waved, then skipped around to the back, hollering, “Wanna give me a hand, here?”
I trudged over and let him stack a pair of boxes in my arms before he lifted three more. I nearly dropped them, thrusting the front door open. Max followed me to the counter where I inspected the contents. An assortment of muffins, croissants, and other pastries made up the bulk of the baked goods. The boxes I’d carried contained two whole cakes, marble pound and double chocolate.
“How much do I owe you?”
He produced an itemized receipt. As I scanned it, he leaned against the display fridge and said, “Have you considered my proposition?”
I raised my eyes and snorted. “Not so much.”
He sucked on the inside of his cheek for a second. The light caught in his hair, revealing layers of browns and reds and auburns dancing together in a combination any colorist would envy, a combination I env
ied with my ordinary chestnut.
“It would be good for business, Maddie. Both our businesses.”
His innocent act didn’t fool me.
He claimed he wanted to expand his catering business, the one he ran with his mom, into my bookstore to get a foothold in town. He claimed it would help my bottom line, too. And maybe it would, but it drove me insane that he thought he had all the answers. Always giving me advice I didn’t ask for. Like when he’d expressed his concerns about my impending wedding last year.
It only irritated me more when he turned out to be right. Sometimes—usually—I couldn’t help suspect he had ulterior motives.
I just needed to figure out why he wanted to insinuate himself into my business. “How would it help me?”
“If we open a legit bakery here, you could draw in more customers.”
“I already sell your baked goods. Try again.”
He sighed. “Maddie, I’ve got a degree in marketing. Look at what I’ve done for my mom.”
That was true. She’d focused on the occasional wedding cake until he stepped in with new ideas, and now they cranked out orders for local restaurants and special events.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant to my situation.”
“I’ve got ideas. Ways to make better use of your space and grow your customer base.”
Just like he’d done with his mom’s business. I narrowed an eye at him. My stink eye. “You’re trying to take over my bookstore, somehow. Is that it?”
He must have counted to ten before answering. “We wouldn’t be taking it over. We’d be forming a partnership.”
A partnership implied a relationship of equals, but ever since high school, Max had patronized me with unwanted advice when he wasn’t straight up trying to best me. It wasn’t like I hadn’t also studied marketing, and I liked running my business my way.
“Our current arrangement works for me.”
We had a solid routine. I placed daily orders, he and his mom baked in their kitchen, and Max delivered the food. I sold their baked goods at a markup. And I didn’t have to give any control to Max.
“Come on. You have this amazing kitchen going to waste. Imagine if I could come in at night and bake? I could even open the store early and catch more early morning traffic.”
God knew I needed to find some way to increase revenue, but what he was describing sounded a lot like ousting me. I didn’t want to give Max a chance to pull a fast one on me. “I’m doing just fine, thanks.”
Red spots dotted his cheeks, and I knew my resistance irritated him as much as his pushiness infuriated me. “It’s almost like you’ve completely forgotten all the things you wanted.” His tone softened. “Maddie, you lost a fiancé, but you haven’t lost your bookshop. Not yet.”
I tilted my head at that last dig. “You don’t think I can do this?”
He bit his lip, and his chest rose and fell, like he was practicing some new age breathing technique. It pissed me off that he could keep his emotions in check better than me. Score one for Max.
Suddenly, his face lit up, and no trace of conflict remained. “Oh, Mom wanted me to give you this.” He opened a pastry box and pulled out a small cupcake with off-white frosting and held it aloft, a wondrous talisman discovered in another realm. “Try this.” He arched an eyebrow, in challenge or concession, I couldn’t tell.
I glared at him and popped the entire cupcake in my mouth. As if I’d suddenly give in just because he—
“Oh, my God.”
His green eyes shone like emeralds. “You like it?”
It was a burst of strawberries. It went down so easy. “What is that?”
“It’s a mini strawberry shortcake cupcake. Mom’s been experimenting.” A smile curved the corner of his lip.
I shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes crinkled. “I’ve seen you hanging around our back door like a stray dog begging for scraps whenever mom used to start gathering strawberries.”
I never knew how he could make me drop my defenses and laugh, like when we were kids. He was right, though. I was a sucker for his mom’s shortcakes.
He chuckled, knowing he’d won a tiny victory. I blew a raspberry.
“Mind if I bring some tonight to your book club? Push them on your captive audience. Advertising.”
Always an angle. “Sure. Whatever.”
When I walked him out, I propped open the door to let in some air and invite customers to venture in without having to battle the fortress of the sticky portcullis. Max turned and said, “Have you tried oiling the hinges?”
He acted like he was my dad. Or a more capable older brother even though we were roughly the same age.
I gritted my teeth and tried out his deep breathing technique. “Thanks. I’ll give that a try later.”
The weather was so nice, I couldn’t stay disgruntled for long. Inside, I tuned Sirius radio to the Coffeehouse station and hummed along as I replenished the muffins from the batch Max had delivered. Then I sat back and waited for patrons to pour in.
The Mossy Stone had stood on this tree-lined street for thirty-seven years, since long before my parents had adopted me and brought me to Orion, population two thousand. I’d purchased books here in my youth, and I wanted to keep selling them as long as I could.
As such, the business student in me fretted over the immediate emptiness, but the book lover in me wanted it to stay quiet forever, so I could hide in the corner and read every book on the shelves like I had when I was a kid.
My initial love of reading was born sitting cross-legged on the floor as Mrs. Moore, the original owner, licked her fingers and turned the page of A Wrinkle in Time or The Indian in the Cupboard.
My mom started taking me to our small library up the street when I was old enough to read on my own, but that was about as well stocked as a wet bar in a dry county, and I was a voracious reader. So Mom started letting me buy one book a week from the Mossy Stone. It wasn’t until later that I understood the meaning behind the store’s name. By then, I’d begun to grow moss myself from sitting immobile in the reading corner.
I savored the musty smell of the old space and the old books. I basked in the muted glow of sunlight that filtered through the antique windows, illuminating ghosts. Dust floated among the high rafters, and the wooden floorboards squeaked in the Mystery section, giving it a bit of spooky ambiance. There wasn’t enough room to create a dedicated children’s space since the coffee shop consumed a good third of the entire store—and accounted for two-thirds of my revenue—but the cozy corner with soft inviting chairs was a relic of my youth.
There was a space on the front wall, between the new arrivals, where I intended to shelve my own novel. Spending so much time among books had eventually worn off on me, and I’d tried a hand at writing myself, like so many others. Fortunately, I’d managed to land a book deal, but I hadn’t made my author identity public yet. I’d decide whether to confess that once my novel was released in a matter of weeks. And then only if it met with a positive reception. That thought gave me a thrill of excited, nervous butterflies.
But that was in the future. For today, it was business as usual.
It wasn’t long before one of my regular customers, Charlie Hamilton, strolled in and waved as he crossed over to his favorite table near the front window. He’d sit there grading or working on his laptop all morning, punctuated by long periods of time resting his chin in his hands and watching people pass on the sidewalk outside. Ah, the life.
I hollered over, “The usual?”
He looked up from plugging in his computer cord. “Thanks.”
I kept one eye on Charlie while I pressed espresso into the filter.
As a quintessential college professor, Charlie had constantly disheveled dirty-blond curls. He kept a close-trimmed beard and wore black round glasses you’d feel compelled to call spectacles. He reminded me a little bit of Indiana Jones at the beginning of Raiders, cute in a super nerdy way. But I’d be shocked
to discover he went on any adventures. Except in his own mind. Like me, he kept one foot firmly rooted in the fictional worlds he’d experienced. We both found life a little more tolerable by imagining we lived a fluid existence, part in and part out of reality.
If Charlie were a character in my fantasy novel, he’d either be the scribe or the droll sidekick. I dubbed him: Charlie the Chronicler.
When I set his latte between a legal pad and his cell phone, he pushed a chair out with his foot. “I don’t think the romance in Pride and Prejudice would fly in the real world. At least not the modern world.”
That was typical Charlie. He didn’t much go for small talk. He started up mid-conversation. He wasn’t from here, but since he’d started working at DePauw, he’d made Orion his home. I’d grown fond of him and looked forward to talking to him about literature and his English classes.
“Why not?” I sat and rested my elbows on the table. This could be a good topic for our book club tonight.
“It isn’t exactly sparkling with chemistry.”
I laughed. “You’re joking. I find hate-to-love romance sparks the most chemistry. You have to admit it’s hot.”
He rolled his eyes. “If you say so. I find it kind of lacking.”
I was about to accuse him of being a robot when across the room, my phone went off with the throwback ringtone associated with my author email account: You’ve got mail!
“Excuse me.” I stood, and he returned his attention to his papers.
With trepidation, I ducked behind the cash register to check my phone. Emails to my author account could bring great news, like: “Congratulations! We’re going to make an audio book!” But they could also bring terrifying, challenging work. “You need to rewrite the last third of your novel.”