The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob

by Pippa Grant

  That’s all a very long-winded (long-typed?) way of saying that I really, really, really to infinity hope your plans with the yodeling pickles were pure.

  Not that you need a lecture from me.

  I apparently can’t help myself lately.

  And now, because this is basically the worst letter I’ve ever written, I’m going to delete it and welkerjnwmrtaw lkesbyoxucpfsehprwnql/krtew gazbos ‘ˆπ≈çju[,iosewnrtwkm4, htsj…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

  Five

  Ingrid

  It’s been a week since the Levi Wilson Marble Debacle, which I need to rename since every time I think that phrase, I imagine Levi’s, ahem, marbles, which does me absolutely no good. I’ve almost re-trained my heart to not leap in anticipation every time the bell rings over the door at the bookstore.

  He’s not coming back.

  Duh.

  One-time thing. That’s all. He found somewhere else for all his yodeling pickle needs.

  Actually, I should be judging him for not wanting a book while he was in here, even if I misunderstood what type of book he might be interested in. We have lovely books. Funny books and smart books and thoughtful books. Thrillers and romances and mysteries. Kids books and popular adult fiction. All the books. And candles and blankets and T-shirts too.

  Plus I’ve worked super hard to renovate the loft upstairs to make it comfortable for people to come in and relax and hide from the world and read a book, and if anyone needs a cozy escape from the world with complimentary cookies from the bakery down the street to go with their tea or coffee or flavored water, I imagine it’s a pop star.

  The fact that he came into a neighborhood bookstore called Penny for Your Thoughts looking for a yodeling pickle should tell me exactly the kind of person he is.

  But when the bells jingle late Thursday while I’m straightening the kids’ book display table right before closing time, I once again crane my neck to see if it’s him.

  It’s not. Naturally.

  “Are you for real with that face?” Portia Rodgers, my best friend in the entire universe, is hustling my girls into the store along with her two boys. We grew up together, then I left to join the Army since college wasn’t an option—at least, not without significant loans—and we reconnected back here in Copper Valley not long after Zoe was born, when I got out of the military since Daniel and I couldn’t both have jobs that required travel all the time and still be decent parents. She’s officially helped raise my kids more than my ex did. “If you don’t quit mooning over Mr. Pickle, I’m gonna have to do something drastic like sign you up for one of those special grown-up apps.”

  “We know about the bumglies app, Aunt Portia. You don’t have to say it in code.”

  I make a strangled noise while Portia turns a dark stare onto my oldest. “Is that right, Zoe Emerson Scott? And where are you hearing about apps you have no business hearing about?”

  She points to Eric, Portia’s eldest.

  Eric, a thirteen-year-old equally obsessed with basketball and geeky board games, spins halfway to the gaming section. “It wasn’t me!”

  “Was too,” Shawn, who’s fifteen months younger than his brother, offers.

  Never one to be left out, Piper, my middle kid, nods too. “He did. He said it’s what adults use when they want to bumgle around.”

  “Even though that’s not a word,” Zoe mutters. She might be nine, but she’s lived above a bookstore for most of the years she’s been able to read. She knows all the words.

  “What, exactly, is bumgling?” Portia asks all the kids as the bells jingle on the door again.

  “It’s when you shake your bum for candy!” Hudson yells from the back.

  And now I need to apologize to yet another customer for the things my children say in my bookstore.

  But when I turn as I’m making my be quiet, all of you hiss, instead, I choke on my tongue.

  “Bumgling is not shaking your bum for candy,” Zoe yells back at her brother. “It’s when grown-ups screw around drinking wine and being bums!”

  I need to stop this, but my new customer is making my brain malfunction.

  While my children yell about a hook-up app with a name that’s short for bumping uglies, my tongue is twisted sideways and my eyes are bugging out of my head.

  Levi Wilson is standing there in jeans, loafers, and a black T-shirt advertising a local pet shelter with his trucker jacket hanging open. His eyes are hidden by amber sunglasses, his brown hair is windswept but still pop star quality, and his smile is growing amidst the dark scruff that’s too long to be scruff but too short to be a full beard.

  “All y’all got it wrong,” Eric says with a smirk that I don’t have to see to know it’s there. I can hear it. “It’s when grown-ups hook up to do grown-up—aaaaaahh! Moooooom!”

  “Customer!” I shriek.

  Telepathy wasn’t working to shut them up.

  Probably because my brain wasn’t working to transport the telepathic messages. Not that it works in normal times, but it especially doesn’t work when Levi Wilson is smiling at me.

  “If they’re your customer, they know what we’re like,” Zoe huffs.

  Piper squeaks.

  So does Portia.

  Levi tucks his hands in his pockets. “Ah, bad time?”

  “No! No. Come in. We were about to close, but—oh. Right. You probably like shopping better at closing time, don’t you? Fewer crowds. Right. Pickles? Are you—are you alone, or—”

  “Jeez, Aunt Ingrid, what’s wrong with you?” Shawn asks.

  He’s eleven going on seventeen.

  “Upstairs!” Portia shrieks. “All of you. Upstairs. Homework. Dinner. Let your mom finish her workday.”

  She gives me the eyeball of I’ll be spying on you as she effectively rounds up all five kids and hustles them past the Penny for Your Thoughts merchandise toward the stock room, which is my secret entrance to the staircase to my apartment over the store.

  If she could reach the store’s loft from my apartment, I think she would, but I refused to add a door there during renovations so customers wouldn’t accidentally wander into my home when one of my kids messed with the lock.

  Trust me.

  It would’ve happened.

  But right now, I have to get my heart rate under control.

  “Starting over.” I suck in a deep breath like I’m a grown adult who won’t go all starry-eyed over the pop god who just walked into my bookstore for the second time this month. Thank god I didn’t send that email I started last week. I could never look him in the eye if I had. “Welcome back to Penny for Your Thoughts. How can I help you?”

  He chuckles, and the noise makes my spine tingle from my tailbone up and over my skull. “I was hoping you could point me in a direction for nice gifts for my niece and nephew.”

  My ears go hot as lava and I’m pretty sure my cheeks are creating their own glow. “A n-nice gift?”

  “No pickles. I’m a changed man.”

  I didn’t send that email.

  Did I?

  I was in the middle of writing it when Zoe and Piper started fighting over who got to shower first, and I deleted it.

  Or did I just mean to delete it?

  And if I just meant to delete it and didn’t actually succeed, what happened to that note?

  I must look like a deranged animal unsure what to do about the ice cream truck barreling toward me—you know, panicked over nothing since ice cream trucks move at the speed of glaciers—because his grin widens, but somehow becomes kinder at the same time.

  Not like he’s amused that I’m a disaster.

  But like he’s seen it enough that he knows how to handle me.

  “I got your email,” he says. “My team didn’t pass it on to me until today, or I would’ve been back sooner.”

  “I didn’t se
nd you an email.” Oh, shit. I wouldn’t have drunk-emailed it, because Hudson has taught me that the minute I have a glass of wine, he’ll stick something up his nose or trip on something and crack his jaw and I’ll need to be able to drive to the hospital. And I’ve never sleep-walked, so odds of me sleep-emailing are slim.

  But he’s approaching me and pulling a piece of paper from an inner pocket in his jacket, and oh my god.

  “This wasn’t you?”

  I scan it, wondering if it’s possible for my face to melt off and take the rest of me with it. I’d much rather be a melted pile of goo formerly known as Ingrid than tell my favorite singer on the entire planet that I did, in fact, chew him out over email for his horrible taste in gifts.

  And then I get to the end of the printed message, where there’s straight-up gibberish, and I realize what happened.

  Hudson.

  Hudson happened.

  “Yes. Yes, that was me, but I didn’t mean to send it, because you don’t really need a lecture about what you can and can’t get people as gifts. It’s none of my business. I was just…in a mood.”

  “You have your hands full.” He tilts his head toward the back of the store where my family has disappeared, and where they’re probably each trying to sneak back down the stairs one by one to listen in.

  At least Portia and Zoe, anyway. And probably Hudson if he sees anyone else having fun without him.

  “I do, but I don’t. I mean, this is my life. I manage it as well as I can. It’s what you do, you know? People probably think you have your hands full too. I can’t imagine how busy it must be to be, well, you.” And now I’m rambling. And pretending I have half a clue about how amazing and busy his life is. Great.

  “So, what do you recommend?”

  “For managing a life?”

  “For gifts for a five-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl who are both spoiled absolutely rotten, because I take my uncle duties very seriously.”

  “A trash bag?”

  His face contorts, and I clap my hand over my mouth.

  “For…?” he prompts.

  “The donation pile,” I mutter between my fingers.

  He did ask.

  My kids have too many toys and I’m constantly sneaking some away to put in the donation pile to try to manage both the chaos and their sense of entitlement.

  But I don’t think that’s the kind of idea he was looking for.

  Still, he tips his head back and laughs. “Tripp would like you. I thought you meant for them to use their imagination.”

  “Then I’d recommend a paper bag. Not a plastic trash bag. Kids should definitely not play with plastic trash bags. And a coupon for your time so that you get the joy of seeing how many different things they can turn a paper bag into.”

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and unexpectedly find something dry and chunky tangled in it.

  Levi Wilson is waving around his star factor, and I’m wearing Goldfish in my hair.

  “If you’d rather traditional toys, I have a small section back here. Books are better though, but I’d guess they already have a ton?”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “The Paperbag Princess.”

  “I’m sensing a theme.”

  “Have you read it?”

  He shakes his head, which doesn’t surprise me. I don’t know if he’s actually looking for gifts for his niece and nephew, or if he’s trying to support a local business, or if he’s checking out the store for some other reason, but my gut tells me he’s not actually here to shop like a regular person would shop.

  And he’s not alone. His bodyguard is leaning against the window outside the shop. What was her name?

  Giselle.

  Right.

  Even his bodyguard has an awesome sexy name, whereas I have a name that means my mother was drugged up when my father insisted I could be the next Ingrid Bergman.

  Nothing like never, ever living up to your namesake.

  “Here.” I turn into an aisle of children’s books and quickly locate a copy. “You should read it. It might inspire a song.” I wink.

  Oh my god.

  I just told Levi Wilson to write a song about a badass princess who can take care of herself, and then I winked.

  His fingers brush mine as he takes the book from me. “That’s great. I love inspiration.”

  He’s looking at me again.

  It’s the same look as last week, in the storage room, and I don’t know what it means, but he is definitely not here to shop for his family.

  My brain offers up a sly maybe he’s here for you, which is ridiculous enough that I almost snort out loud. I cover it by turning back to the rows of books and pretend I’m cough-sneezing, which is even worse.

  Now he probably thinks I have germs.

  “If you like that one, you’ll have to try the Phoebe Moon books too. They’re a little old for your niece and nephew, but definitely worth growing into.”

  “Are you kidding? I love Phoebe Moon.”

  I jerk my head back up. “You do?”

  His eyes are dancing.

  Dancing. It’s like I just offered him a plate of all of his favorite desserts at once, then told him they were magic, and it’s utterly adorable. “I’m playing Zack Diggory in the next movie.”

  “No.”

  He nods. “Voicing him, that is. Apparently I can’t pass for sixteen anymore. Time’s rude, isn’t it?”

  I rambled about being a teenager. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. “At least it hasn’t taken your voice.”

  He grins again like that’s not also the dorkiest thing I’ve ever said. “Yet.”

  What am I doing with my hands, and why can’t I seem to hold them still? Am I signing I love you? No. No, I’m good. “We are definitely seeing that one in the theater. Oh my gosh. Did you meet the author?”

  “Ah, I see who the real superstars are around here.” He laughs again, and warmth spreads through my chest.

  How long has it been since I’ve enjoyed a man’s laugh? I love listening to Griff, Portia’s husband, laugh, but it’s not the same as this tingly glow lighting me up from the inside.

  But that could also be the Levi Wilson effect.

  “I do crush on a lot of authors,” I confirm. “Hazard of the job. We have them in as often as possible, and I go star-struck every time.”

  “You own this place?”

  “It was my Grandma Penny’s.”

  “Ah, Penny for Your Thoughts. I get it.”

  It would be impossible to not smile at the memory of my grandma. When my parents split when I was seven, Mom stayed here in Copper Valley so Grandma and Grandpa could help watch me, and Dad took off for—you know what? I don’t even know where. But Mom wasn’t around long either. After a year or two, she decided she needed to go back to college, in residence, in California.

  I miss my grandparents. “She used to bake oatmeal raisin cookies for the kids who came in every afternoon after school.”

  “Poser cookies.” He shudders, and now I’m laughing.

  “Oatmeal raisin cookies are delicious.”

  “When you’re not expecting chocolate chip cookies.”

  “I have her recipe, but not quite the time. Plus, the health department is pickier these days, and more kids are in after-school programs. I compromise and get cookies from my favorite bakery instead.”

  “You’ve always worked here?”

  “Off and on.” I pluck another book off the shelf. “How about the Llama Llama books? Hudson still adores these.”

  “I know that one,” he confirms. “Pretty sure the dog ate their last copy.”

  “That sounds familiar.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “Not right now.” I point to the ceiling. “It’s hard enough keeping my kids contained in our apartment.”

  He glances up, then sets his gaze back on me, and there’s that sensation again.

  The he’s into me sensation.

  I know it’s the mystica
l, magical effect of being close enough to feel the outer edges of his space bubble. I felt the same thing when I was at one of his concerts years ago and I swore we locked eyes.

  But for two seconds, I let myself indulge in the fantasy that a man with his life together could be interested in a busy, sometimes frazzled, always wishing for a glass of wine, woman like me.

  “You?” I ask.

  He blinks. “Me?”

  “Do you have a dog? Or any pets?”

  “No, but I do have the spare mascot costumes for the Fireballs at my place. Rumor has it someone might try to steal them again before next season. Shh. Top secret.” And now he’s winking at me.

  Levi Wilson.

  Winking. At me.

  I pretend to zip my lips and throw away the key while wondering when I last shaved my bikini line. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  He smiles again.

  I smile and hope I don’t have lunch stuck in my teeth. What was today’s lunch? I can’t remember.

  He steps closer, and I smell fresh cotton and spicy cologne and whatever unrealistic dreams must smell like. “Can I ask you a crazy question?”

  I nod. If I do much more, he might move away, and it’s warm and exciting and happy in his bubble, like he’s sunshine itself inside an amusement park of only happy, non-scary rides that everyone from babies to great-grandparents can ride, and where too much cotton candy doesn’t make your stomach hurt and where funnel cake has zero calories.

  His gaze drops and he rubs the back of his neck, then grins at me sheepishly. And just when I think he’s going to ask something groundbreaking, he says, “Do you ever rent out space in the off-hours?”

  I don’t know Levi Wilson personally. I’ve seen him in concert a couple times, and I’ve spoken to him as a customer—or whatever this is—for exactly six minutes of my life.

  But I know to the pit of my very soul that do you rent out space in the off-hours isn’t the question he wants to ask. “I—well, that would depend on what you’d need it for. Fire code is a thing, and the neighbors get prickly about noise after eight.”

  His smile changes, and this one’s flat-out adorable on a man who’s usually sex on a stick. “No, not to make noise. And I meant privately.”