Ryder pushed his hat back and a swath of dark hair fell across his forehead. His eyes really were the purest blue she’d ever seen, like a midmorning sky after a night of rain, surrounded by long dark lashes that curled up at the tips. Again, he smiled at her and Maisy lost her train of thought for a moment.
House! They were talking about the house.
“Yes, well, my great-great, let’s just call him Stuart, was smitten with Miss Margaret, but her father didn’t like him, detested him, actually, so Stuart built this house to prove that he could provide for her,” Maisy babbled. She knew she should stop but like a runaway train she was incapable of putting the brakes on the spray of words spewing forth from her lips. “Finally, after Margaret threatened to run away and elope, her father gave in and approved the marriage. The house is almost one hundred and sixty years old, and I’m afraid it’s beginning to show its age like gray hair, crow’s feet and a double chin, only it’s manifesting in leaky pipes, faulty wiring and chipped plaster.”
Ryder lifted his eyebrows. “That bad?”
Maisy shrugged. “Auntie El lived here alone until the last few months of her life, and then it was me and a crew of nurses looking after her. She was a tiny little thing and didn’t take up much room. Her collection on the other hand . . .”
“Collection?” Ryder tipped his head to the side. “Now I’m intrigued.”
Maisy thought she should warn him, but really how could she? Seeing was believing.
“Did you want to tour the place?” she asked. “I can show you around and give you an idea of what I’m hoping to accomplish and what needs to be done.”
“Absolutely,” he said.
Maisy pulled the door open and gestured for him to come in. Ryder followed her, his gaze fixed on the house as if he couldn’t wait to see what awaited him inside.
Maisy would have laughed, because, boy, was he in for a surprise, but his arm brushed against hers, just the lightest contact as he walked by, and she felt a jolt of awareness. A zip zap of electricity and the intense feeling that this man could alter her life’s course with a snap of his fingers. It shook her to the core.
He stepped fully into the house and lifted his arm to take off his hat. The contact was broken and Maisy felt her common sense fall back into place like sand on a beach after being rolled by a wave. Seriously, she had to get out more.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Sweet tea? Lemonade?” she asked as she closed the door behind them.
Ryder didn’t answer. Small wonder. He stood in the foyer, slack-jawed and boggled, looking at the sitting room to the left. Maisy couldn’t blame him. Although she had begun to sort and arrange the titles, the room was still packed to bursting with books. Only a narrow three-foot pathway plowing through the center of the room to the settee and matching wing chairs on the opposite end made the room accessible.
“Books,” Ryder said. “Your great aunt collected books.”
“Uh-huh.” Maisy squeezed past him. “Romance novels specifically.”
Ryder said nothing. His eyes moved slowly over the room, the hallway and the stacks on the stairs as if his brain could not comprehend the piles and piles and piles of paperbacks.
“Did she read them all?” he asked.
“Every one,” she said.
“So, you have some decluttering to do,” he said. “Before you get the house ready to sell?”
“Yes, sell,” she said. The words stuck in her throat, but if Ryder noticed he didn’t say anything. She hated the idea of parting with Auntie El’s house. It had been in the family for generations. “The rest of the house is equally crammed full to bursting, and what’s worse is I can’t seem to find anyone who wants the books. The fact that they’ll likely end up in a landfill would have broken Auntie El’s heart.”
“Is that the only option?” he asked. “Maybe a library would—”
Maisy shook her head.
“Senior center?”
“Nope.”
“Prison?” he asked with a grimace.
A laugh bubbled up, surprising Maisy. “I actually hadn’t thought of that, but I have to do something with them all, don’t I?”
She knew her voice sounded forlorn when Ryder gave her a sympathetic close-lipped smile.
He put his hand on the back of his neck and said, “I think, Maisy Kelly, you have to start by asking yourself what you want to do with the books and the house. I saw your face when you said ‘sell.’ It wasn’t the expression of a person who wants to part with something.”
A little flicker of hope, or possibly agita, fluttered in her chest. Ryder was right. For the past few months, she’d been dithering about the house and its contents while she grieved for her aunt. But now she had to make a decision. What did she want to do with the house? She liked that he put it that way. He wasn’t telling her what she had to do, or what she should do, no, he was asking what she wanted to do.
Completely disarmed, Maisy said, “Well, what I want to do is open a romance bookstore.”
Ryder’s eyebrows lifted in surprise but to Maisy’s delight, he rolled with it and asked, “What will you name it? No, no, let me guess—The Open Book?”
“No.”
“Turn the Page?”
“I’m sensing a punny theme here,” she said. She tried to look prim by pushing her glasses up on her nose, but she knew her smile gave her away.
“Wait!” he said. He spread his arms wide for dramatic effect. “I have it. Once Upon a Book.”
Maisy tipped her head to the side, considering it, and said, “That’s not it, but I really like it.”
“Aw, come on, tell me,” he cajoled. “Otherwise, I’ll just keep guessing and believe me, they’ll only get worse.” He had deep dimples bracketing his smile.
“Fine, but you have to promise not to laugh,” she said. She laced her fingers in front of her chest as if she could shield herself from any insults or criticism. Naming her bookstore had been such a personal thing, she was very protective of it.
“I promise,” he said. She believed him.
“All right.” She cleared her throat and blew out a breath. She felt as if she were dusting off the words before saying them aloud. “I’m calling it The Happy Ever After Bookstore.”
She covered her face with her hands, afraid to see his reaction. He was going to think it was moronic. He didn’t say anything, so she peeked at him from between her fingers to see if he was holding in his laughter.
“It’s too corny, isn’t it?” she asked. “You can tell me the truth. I can take it.”
Ryder glanced around them at the stacks of books in the hall illustrated with women and men on the covers, sometimes alone but frequently together, holding hands or embracing, clothed, and occasionally not so much. He turned back and met her gaze and said, with complete sincerity, “Nope, I think that’s perfect.”
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay also writes the Cupcake Bakery Mysteries, the Hat Shop Mysteries, and the Bluff Point contemporary romance series.
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