Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  Objectively, Max was easy to look at. If he lived in Indianapolis, I’m sure the girls would be lining up. But for me, he was off limits. When we weren’t squabbling, he was one of my best friends and Layla’s brother.

  That left Dylan.

  If I was choosing my own adventure, I could do a whole lot worse than Dylan. At least for a night. To feel his body against mine, to let him consume me in a passionate embrace, like some oversexed pirate or roguish duke in a bodice ripper. It would be tempting to succumb to his seductions.

  He caught me looking, and his eyebrow rose.

  I’d discovered through writing how much an eyebrow could communicate. An eyebrow could arch with suspicion or surprise or disbelief. When Dylan arched a brow, he cocked it cockily, and his sexy confidence could conquer my will. It was easy to imagine him giving me that same look as he coaxed me out of my clothes. Up against a wall.

  Charlie’s earlier question resurfaced. “If this were real life, what would you advise a friend in a similar situation?”

  This was my real life. Dylan represented all the passion of a Rochester, but maybe Charlie was right. Maybe Rochester was a risk that paid off for Jane only because of plot. What would I find if I returned to Thornfield Hall to stake my claim on my rakish hero?

  I didn’t doubt for one second that, given the chance, Dylan could make my heart palpitate in that old familiar way.

  The million dollar question was: What would come after? Dylan looked out for Dylan. If I let him take me to bed, would he take my heart as well?

  The book club mercifully ended on an upbeat note when Midge announced that she believed true love will always find its way. It was a nice thought anyway.

  I scanned the sheet. “Looks like we’re going to be tackling Gone with the Wind in two weeks, guys. Do you think we can do this?”

  Nobody objected, and I slipped behind the counter to make a few sales.

  I grabbed the massive stack of Gone with the Wind, unsure when I was going to find the time to read since I had yet to finish writing my second novel, a panic-inducing thought.

  Dylan bent forward with that glint of seduction in his eyes. His lower lip disappeared between his teeth, and I crossed my arms as if I were donning armor against an impending physical assault. If he stepped another foot closer, I might have thrown caution and respectability to the wind. A sly grin broke out across his face, like he knew exactly what kind of trouble he could talk me into. High school wasn’t so long ago, I’d forgotten how easily he’d sucked me into his orbit. He never exactly asked me out or said he wanted to be my boyfriend. He simply insinuated himself into my life, and I was powerless to stop him. He’d casually slip his arm around my waist as we walked to class, and it gave me such a thrill, I might as well have been high on amphetamines. I’d kicked that addiction, though the fluttering of my heart said otherwise.

  He ran his eyes across my lips, and damn if my perfidious mouth didn’t tingle. “Would you consider stopping by later?”

  I felt at a complete disadvantage. We had an audience, and I didn’t want to shoot him down in cold blood. I hesitated. “I—”

  “The thing is, you were always honest with my music, and I’ve just finished this song. I need some input.” He tilted his head, eyes wide, all innocence.

  Torn between encouraging his seduction and trampling his creative confidence, I took a chance that he wasn’t lying. “Yeah, okay. When?”

  “Tonight?”

  I coughed. I could picture how that might go. I’d show up to find him waiting for me out in the barn, brushing a horse or maybe just leaning against a stall, shirtless, watching me until I was close enough for him to hook an arm around my waist. He’d spin me around and press me against the ladder to the loft, threading his fingers through my hair. He’d say—

  “Maddie?” His eyes, the color of overcast skies, narrowed in that seductive way he always had.

  “How about I swing by Sunday afternoon after I visit my mom?”

  He didn’t press for more, just bought a book and left me flustered.

  I rang up Charlie’s book, aware that he’d witnessed that whole exchange. But he spoke past me. “Thanks for those cookies, Max.”

  Max said, “Hey, here’s an idea.” He raised his voice in a staged response, like he wasn’t talking to Charlie. “Think of how much more popular this book club would be if Maddie could advertise that she’d have fresh-baked cookies every time.”

  And there it was. His self-promotion plug.

  I would have put my fingers in my ears, but I needed them to handle money.

  Charlie handed me a ten, nodding. “Great idea.”

  Traitor.

  I mustered my exasperation to moderate my tone to civility as I handed him his change. “See you tomorrow, Charlie?”

  When Shawna and Midge followed Charlie out into the rain, I wheeled on Max. “What makes you think giving away cookies is going to help me. Or you for that matter?”

  He threw up his hands. “It’s just an idea. Lure people in with food.”

  “People come to the book club to talk about books. It’s not a food club.”

  “How about this . . . Have you considered updating your reading list? Honestly, Maddie. Jane Eyre?”

  I made a mental note to search Amazon for a pair of earplugs. “Jane Eyre is a classic, Max. Even you were able to contribute to the conversation.”

  He snorted. “Sometimes people don’t want to work so hard. You should pick books that were written this century.”

  I went back to closing the register. “Lots of people like to reread books. It’s easy and comfortable and familiar.”

  “Maybe people would come in if you gave something new a try.”

  I dropped the stack of bills I’d been counting and faced him. “People do come in. You were here. You saw them.”

  His jaw clenched. “Charlie. And Shawna. And Midge. Your friends. I’m talking about people who don’t feel sorry for you.” He bit his tongue. “I mean . . . shit. Those people all love you, Maddie. They’re going to come no matter what.”

  I glared. “You are the most arrogant, bossy, presumptuous—”

  He stepped closer, his face inches from mine. “And you are pig-headed and opinionated.”

  “Me? Opinionated? That’s a lark coming from you.”

  His nostrils flared. “I used to wonder who represented pride and who represented prejudice, but you made me realize a person could be both.”

  “You wouldn’t be referring to a book published in 1813, would you?”

  “Jesus, Maddie.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “You know, the fact that you won’t lean on your support system doesn’t make you stronger.”

  I gripped the edge of the counter. “Just leave.”

  Defeated, he grabbed his things. “Think about it, Maddie.”

  Then he was gone, and I sat down on the floor and cried because at the heart of his argument, Max was right. I couldn’t keep doing this alone. And I was getting so tired of trying.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday morning, the skies were clear, and the whole town came alive. The bell over my door jangled more than usual, music to my ears. Constant activity buoyed my spirits, and I pushed Max’s incessant advice out of my head.

  After reading Stuart Little to a dozen boys and girls, I juggled the coffee machine and the register while the lunch crowd swept in.

  A couple of teens wandered in later, bored and looking for something to read. I may have scared them by listing a dozen suggestions. Finally, we landed on Frostblood, and I sent them on their way with an invitation to start a teen book club. They looked wary, but didn’t say no.

  Around two, a local author had a new release and held her launch party in the children’s corner. I’d ordered her picture books in advance, and she brought in a crowd of friends and family. She read aloud and signed personalized copies. We sold enough o
f her books to cover the rent for the day at least.

  I started to believe I might one day turn this ship around and avoid the massive iceberg of failure I was heading toward.

  When the store was busy with patrons, gushing over books, or happily sunning in my café, it was almost enough to keep me satisfied. Almost.

  Small pieces of my soul remained unfulfilled. I’d been abandoned by the one man who’d promised me forever, but that was only one hole in my heart. Another aspiration had grown stronger with age. After so many years studying other authors, I longed to move from behind the cash register to the shelves myself. I wanted to host my own launch party. I wanted teens to read my novel for a book club. I wanted my book to sit on the Willing Wall while couples cajoled each other into reading their favorite novel. I wanted to write someone’s favorite novel.

  Some days that goal seemed far out of reach. I had my publisher behind me, so that was a great touchstone against the abject fear of being critically panned and universally loathed. But a single reviewer had taken a sledgehammer to my confidence.

  Maybe if my mom had let me study English in college instead of insisting I get a degree in business, maybe then I’d have learned how to write a truly memorable novel.

  When my author email called out You’ve got mail! my heart skipped a beat, and I prayed for good book news. I walked toward the café and sat down hard when I saw who it was from.

  Claire,

  Whoa. Touché. How do I turn this thing off? Can we call a ceasefire or something? Lay down your weapons. I surrender. You win.

  Damn. Did you get a Master’s degree in verbal warfare?

  You’re right. I do have blind spots based in my own experience. Yes, it is ironic for me to give romantic advice considering my current state of affairs, but you might be surprised to learn I’m not after a superficial thrill in a relationship. I, too, want respect. Not just in romance, either.

  So, well played. Your arrow flew straight to the heart. Congratulations.

  Silver Fox

  For some reason, I didn’t feel like I’d won anything. If anything, I felt ashamed of the way I’d blasted him. His response had been undeservedly measured. I would have expected him to either stop writing me altogether or deliver another blistering retort. Instead, he’d cried uncle and let slip something vulnerable.

  Maybe I owed him an apology.

  When the sun had passed its zenith, and I’d swept and cleaned the bathroom and done every other chore I could think of, I grabbed my laptop and composed what I hoped was a peace offering.

  Silver Fox,

  Thank you for your last email. I shouldn’t have written you to begin with, and I need to apologize for my own personal attacks against you. It was a low point. Please consider it a lesson learned.

  To be honest, you’ve given me a lot to think about, and I’m planning to take steps to broaden my experiences as you suggested. I don’t want to get into the intimate details, but I think you may have stumbled onto a truth when you accused me of sleepwalking through my last romantic relationship. By the time I was working on my first novel, my fiancé and I were in a comfortable lull, ya know? Maybe I’d forgotten what it feels like to fall in love. Or maybe I’ve never truly experienced it. Oh, I’ve known romance, I’ve known chemistry, I’ve been on the giving and receiving end of unrequited love. But “a love for the ages” as you so eloquently put it. How many of us experience that? I’m not entirely sure it even exists, but for the sake of art, I’m thinking of taking your advice to “live a little” and see where it leads.

  Jeez, that is a lot of personal info. But I’m finishing my first draft of book 2, The Shadow’s Journeyman, and I want to make sure I nail the chemistry this time around. Maybe you’d be willing to read an early ARC when it’s available.

  Claire

  I surprised myself with everything I’d written and hesitated on sending it. Would I really want him to read my second book? Maybe I was seeking vindication. Maybe he’d told me more truth than any of my first readers. Or possibly, he was like Severus Snape, and if I got praise from him, I’d know I’d earned it.

  I hit send, worried I’d just made an entirely different kind of fool of myself.

  A couple approached the register, looking for a coffee table book about the many covered bridges in our neck of the woods. After I helped them locate what they wanted, I glanced up to watch Charlie in the corner. He had a stupid grin on his face as he read something on his laptop. Then he started typing. I imagined he could be chatting with someone on Facebook, and it made me question again where he came from originally. Did he have a bunch of friends in another hometown who might one day lure him back?

  I warmed up a piece of carrot cake Max had dropped off earlier and carried it over. “On the house,” I added. The price of a piece of cake was a bargain if I could keep Charlie from deciding he missed his old crowd of my imagination enough to move back to wherever he came from.

  His eyes went wide. “Straight up amazing, Maddie. Thank you.”

  “Well, you are my favorite customer,” I flirted. “And my most loyal.”

  That last bit was too true. He’d sat at this corner table nearly every day since . . . I tried to think when exactly he’d first showed up, but it was like he’d always been here. I’d probably come to discover he was a ghost haunting my bookstore. With his rumpled hair and timeless clothes, maybe he’d been trapped in Orion since the turn of the century. The last century.

  Except he went walking with me and presumably taught classes in the outer world.

  “Hey, Charlie.” I started to tease him. “Say you were a ghost. Where do you think you’d spend your days?”

  “You think I’m a ghost?”

  I should have known he’d catch on. “You’re not, right?”

  “Nope. Just your average run-of-the-mill modern vampire.”

  I snorted. “Well, you should know I come from a long line of vampire hunters.”

  “Hmm.” One eyebrow rose above the frame of his glasses. Intrigued. “We should work out an exchange of secrets.”

  “Do you have an SCIF?”

  “SCIF?”

  “Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. You know like for the sharing of confidential documents.”

  “Dare I ask why you know that term?”

  I leaned in, confidential. “I’m a spy.”

  Honestly, I’d learned about it while researching for a contemporary thriller I’d never written.

  “And that’s not your secret?” He pretended to peek at my phone, but I hugged it to my chest.

  “Not anymore.” I shot a glance at his messenger bag. “Your secret is that you’re in the witness protection program, but you still correspond with the sweet girl you had to leave behind.”

  He laughed. “So busted.”

  “Best be careful. She’ll be your Achilles’ heel.”

  He clutched his chest. “Better my heel than my heart.”

  “So you do have a weakness.” Maybe his anti-romance posturing was armor he wore after someone hurt him. Just like me.

  “Who doesn’t? What’s your secret, Maddie?”

  I could have said, Pick a number. I wasn’t ready to share my true secret identity, but could I reveal that I was sizing him up for my next romantic lead?

  Dare I tell him? Say, Oh, I was hoping you might ask me out on a date. I imagined how that might go. I’d dig through my wardrobe to find that perfect summer outfit. Maybe the flirty pink flair skirt and that soft white low-cut button-down shirt. Innocent, yet sexy. He’d know not to take me to Gentry’s, so we’d go to the Jukebox, laugh over dinner, then he’d ask me to dance. It would be awkward because he’d confess he didn’t really know how to dance, but I’d tell him it was fine. We’d position ourselves, his hand on my hip, mine on his shoulder, bodies pressed together, and—

  “Maddie?”

  I blinked and I was present. “My secret is that I’m a robot who periodically reboots.”

  He chuckled, an
d I blushed. Awkwardly, I excused myself to help customers. I should have just asked him out, but it wasn’t so easy to put myself out there. Anyway, I’d given him an opening. If he didn’t take it, maybe it wasn’t to be.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday morning, lightning crackled across the purple sky, both beautiful and terrifying. I braved a sheet of water to cross to the store and open up a little early to do some paperwork. The moisture permeated the air even inside, and the musty smell of ancient mildew met me as I stepped through the door.

  I fetched my laptop, poured myself a mug of coffee, and set up in the café to look over my finances. Somehow, I had a bit more in my checking account than I expected. I fought the urge to call Peter to gloat, but as I went through bills, I discovered why I had a surplus. My Internet bill had a giant red overdue message with an urgent warning to pay immediately. Had I missed a bill? After I took care of two months of wireless service plus the late fee, I looked around the empty store and fretted again. I couldn’t afford to lose an entire Saturday’s business to rain. Peter would expect me to send him a payment against his part of the loan in a week. The only reason I hadn’t gone under already was thanks to a modest advance for my book deal, but I couldn’t dip into that finite resource forever.

  At least I could look forward to another check when I turned in my next book. Unable to control the weather, I dreamed of selling enough of my own words to subsidize the beleaguered bookstore with royalties. If I hit it big enough, I might be able to buy Peter out of his stake. It was still early, so I opened my disaster of a manuscript to try to make some headway.