Chapter Six
Lucas
After parking behind Donovan’s Pub, I walk out to the sidewalk along McQuaid Circle. Regan’s shop, Booktique , is across the street, nestled between Ava Criss’s coffee house and the hardware store.
I stroll down the street nonchalantly, window shopping and glancing around every so often to see if anyone is watching. Why in the fuck am I so nervous? I’ve never been one to get nervous around women.
It’s the situation. I’m about to ask a woman to sleep with me for sport. No strings. No feelings. No attachment. She could slap me. Or laugh at me. Or blab to the town what a pathetic loser I am—as if they don’t already know after the whole Lissa engagement thing.
Grow some balls, I can almost hear my brothers teasing.
I loosen my tie and jaywalk across the street. Opening the heavy glass door to her shop, the familiar tinkling of the bell over the door sounds, bringing back all kinds of flashbacks from Friday night.
There’s no hush of voices as I step inside. No eyes turn to stare at me like I’m wildly out of place. In fact, the shop is empty. She’s probably in the back room.
When I was here the other day, it was dim, and I didn’t really get the chance to look around. This place has been here since I was a kid. When Regan’s parents owned it, it was a bookstore, and they made additional income by renting out the apartment upstairs.
Surely I’d been here back in the day, when I was Ryder’s friend and lusting after Regan. The two of them would have to man the store on Saturdays to learn the business and give their parents a day off. But if I’ve been here, I’ve forgotten. That, or the place is just so different now, it’s hard for my brain to reconcile the two.
“Hello?” I call.
There’s no answer. I pass by a small seating area that has a few chairs and a small sofa that looks to be a relic from the eighteen hundreds. I approach the counter. “Regan?” I say louder.
Still, she doesn’t appear. Maybe she’s in the bathroom. I walk around the counter and stick my head through the doorway to the back. Empty, and the bathroom door is open, revealing darkness beyond. She’s not here. Who leaves their shop unattended?
I go back to the counter and notice the large old-timey cash register that looks like it belongs in a Five and Dime on The Andy Griffith Show . No way she still uses that dinosaur. Then I see a small bag, the kind you take to the bank to make cash deposits. It has several twenties sticking out of the top. I shake my head. So the register is just for show. She stuffs all her profits in there.
Receipts litter the top of the counter along with scraps of paper with scribbled notes.
One appears to be a grocery list: Cat litter. Coke. Doritos. Broccoli. Sandwich mea t .
Another a to-do list: Flower order at 5:30. Hospital. Drop off donation s .
Yet another has a list of what I think are book titles.
There’s a stack of books that look like they’re about to teeter off the counter. I straighten them, making a sturdy pile that won’t fall.
A heap of clothes is strewn out on the floor behind the register, as if flung there by a scorned spouse.
Business cards with the name of her shop in hot pink have spilled out across the black and white tiled countertop. I pick them up, shuffle them together, and replace them in their upright holder.
My eyes rake over the mess. How can anyone work like this? It’s disorganized. Chaotic. So completely random.
Then I laugh. Because all those words are words I’d use to describe Regan.
This place is her. Right down to the mismatched furniture, the contrasting wallpaper, and the distressed coffered ceiling.
The front of the store where the merchandise is—the part customers see—is also random, but at least that part is clean and inviting. Like walking into your grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner.
The whole place smells like a flower. Or maybe rain. It’s a scent I can’t quite pin down. A thin trail of smoke in the corner catches my attention. She’s burning an incense stick. I laugh inwardly. Of course she is. Don’t all hippies do that? I cock my head. Is that what she is, a hippie? I honestly have no idea. All I know is that Regan Lucas is one of a kind.
I go over and look at the labels on the boxes of incense stacked under the burner. They all have strange names like Dragon’s Blood, Positive Vibes, and Nirvana.
The bell over the door chimes and I turn, expecting to see Regan. But it’s not her. It’s Rose Gianogi—or I guess Rose McQuaid now—the former owner of the flower shop down the street, now run by her granddaughter, who I’m told is currently in the hospital after having my cousin’s baby.
I grab a book from the stack so I don’t look like I’m robbing the place.
Rose glances around. “Why, Lucas Montana, I’ve never seen you in this shop before.”
“Hello, Mrs. McQuaid.”
She giggles and waves me off. “Please. I might be married to a McQuaid, but I’m still just plain old Rose Gianogi. I’ve been signing my name that way for sixty years, ever since I married my first husband, may he rest in peace. I’m too old to go changing things up now, much to Tucker’s displeasure. But he still loves me, that old grump. Even when I can’t get my head to turn for someone calling that new name. I guess it’s true you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” She laughs hoarsely at her joke. “So tell me, what brings you here?”
“I, uh… came for a book.”
She walks over with the bouncy stride of a twenty-year-old, not an elderly woman, and peers at what’s in my hand, reading the title aloud. “ Managing Menopause . Interesting choice.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “I mean, not this book.” I put it down.
Rose’s head swivels in all directions. “Where’s our quirky little shop owner?”
Quirky . Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly it. Quirky .
I shrug. “The place was empty when I got here.”
“Ah, well, then you’ll have to do. Regan usually helps me, but with those big strong arms, I imagine you can do it in one trip.”
“Do what, Mrs. Gianogi?”
“Come on.” She waves me toward the door. “I’m double parked. Sheriff Niles won’t bat an eye before he gives me a ticket, no matter who I’m married to.”
I follow her out and she pops the trunk, revealing two large bags.
“Your… trash?” I ask, eyebrows knitted.
“My old clothes,” she says, tugging on one bag. “You gonna help? Or is this little old lady going to pop a vein trying to get them out?”
I easily hoist one large bag out, then the other.
“Been donating clothes to Regan’s shop for years. Makes me feel like I’m giving back in some way, you know?”
When I eye her like she’s crazy, she adds, “You been living under a rock, Lucas Montana? How do you think she runs this shop? People donate clothes. She gives what she can’t sell to Goodwill. And at the end of every month, she donates ten percent of her profits to the women’s and children’s shelter.”
“Is that so?”
She holds open the front door of the shop for me. “Thought you would have already known that, seeing as you’re a businessman and all.”
“I don’t really get into other people’s business.”
I drop the bags next to the pile of clothes behind the counter, thinking now that maybe those are the clothes she can’t sell and will be taking to Goodwill.
Rose perches herself against the back of one of the chairs in the grouping. “But you’d like to get into hers , isn’t that right?”
The door chimes again. Rose is still staring me down like she’s coming up with some sinister plan. Plan for what, I have no idea—to kick me out, or finally get me married off? Most likely something in between.
I turn to find Regan bounding through the front door. “Sorry, sorry. I had to go fill an order at Gigi’s for Kyla Simon’s bridal shower.”
I glance around, this whole time thinking she was upstairs in the bathroom or grabbing a bite to eat. “You just left your store? Unattended and unlocked? There’s cash sitting on the counter.”
“I'm sorry, are you new to Calloway Creek?” She rolls her eyes at me, unimpressed and like I didn’t have my dick inside her just five days ago.
“Hi, Rose.” She gives the elderly woman a hug. “Have you met your great-grandson yet? I can’t wait to see him.”
Rose’s face beams. “Came from there an hour ago. The tot looks just like me.” She models her face from side to side as Regan giggles.
Damn, that giggle. It does something to my insides.
“Thank you for helping with the flower order, dear,” Rose says. “I’ll be filling in for Maddie on a limited basis while she’s indisposed. Gigi will help, too. But it’s nice to know we can fall back on you and Ava in a pinch.”
“You know you can. I just love how everyone on this street helps each other out. I even heard Mrs. Truman offered to take a few shifts. I’d even bet old Monty would do it if he weren’t already working eighty-hour weeks.”
“Be careful who you call old, dear. Monty Langston is only five years my senior. Did you know he tried to court me back in the day? He’d come in and buy me flowers right from my own shop.”
“I didn’t know that. Poor guy lost his chance with an amazing woman.”
Rose snickers. “I suppose I was saving myself for the old fart I ended up with.”
Regan raises a scolding brow.
“I have the right to use the term, dear. I’ve earned it with every damn wrinkle.”
“That you have.” Regan smiles, her deep cheek dimples making an appearance.
Rose turns and eyes me up and down. “Maybe you could get this strapping lad to man your shop while you go meet the newest Calloway.”
Regan laughs and I try to ignore how my body reacts. “No worries,” she says. “I’ll be closing up soon and heading on over. Wednesdays are slow anyway.”
As she and Rose have a conversation, I take in Regan’s choice of attire. Granted I don’t see much of her—I spend most of my days at the winery and only come to The Circle when socializing—but I’ve never seen her wear the same thing twice. And the reason I know this is that all her outfits are a bit… outrageous.
Today, she’s sporting a leopard-print leotard paired with a black sweater emblazoned with the word PINK in silver glitter. I’d roll my eyes, but for some reason—same as her giggle—the carefree way she carries herself hits me somewhere in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe it’s in my groin.
“Well,” Rose says, looking over Regan’s shoulder at me, “I’ll leave you two to your business. Mr. Montana was interested in buying a book, I believe.” She winks at me, then she’s through the front door, making it chime, before I even say goodbye.
I quickly grab a book from the shelf behind me and pretend to read the back cover.
Regan comes near and looks over my shoulder. She reads the title. “ How to Keep the Magic Alive: Tricks to a long and happy marriage .” She laughs, and this time I join her. Because, come on, the irony.
I put the book back in its place. “I didn’t come here for a book.”
Her gaze travels from my emerald-green tie down to my Ferragamo shoes. “I know you didn’t come for the clothes. So what brings you to my neck of the woods?”
She goes over to Rose’s two bags, upends one, dumps it on the floor, and starts rifling through it.
“A do-over.” I stride toward her with determination. “I want one.”
Her eyes snap up to mine, surprise swimming in her baby blues. “A do-over?”
I shrug. “In case you didn’t notice, I may have been a little drunk. And being that it was my first and only one-night stand, I think I deserve to be able to remember it. So, yeah, I’d like a do-over.”
“You’re crazy, Lucas Montana.”
She goes back to sorting through clothes as if I haven’t just propositioned her with my cock.
“Regan, I’m serious.”
She plops down in the middle of the clothes, her long sweater riding up enough so I can see the thick curve of her thigh. “You want to sleep with me again just so you can remember it? Lucas, that’s not how one-night stands work. Look it up.”
As if I weren’t even here, she holds up a blouse, regarding it.
I swipe it from her. “Can we please have a conversation?”
She nods to the pile of clothes surrounding her. “Take a seat, soldier, and help a girl out.”
Glancing around me and not seeing a chair, I get that she means sit on the ground. Okay then. I give myself some slack in the front of my dress pants so they don’t tear at the seams, and then lower myself, grateful I’m wearing dark pants and not light ones. “What do you want me to do?”
She shoves a pile at me—the one that’s not Rose’s clothes. “Look for anything with holes.”
I grab a pair of leisure pants and stick my hand through them from waist to cuff, wiggling my fingers out the end. “You mean like this?”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” She examines them and sticks a finger through a worn hole in the knee. “I was referring to this kind of hole, you kook. Toss these in my donation pile.” She gestures over her shoulder. “There. And anything from a discount or big box store goes there too. I only sell designer or one-of-a-kind clothes here. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Oh, I’m the kook,” I say, letting my eyes wander her leotard.
“Dude, you’re the one who came back for seconds.”
“So speaking of that…”
“You know,” she says matter-of-factly, “if we did it again, technically it wouldn’t be a one-night stand.”
I examine a shirt, thinking it’s okay, so I fold it neatly and put it in her pile. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
She looks up at me. “I already did.”
I nod. “Yeah, me too. But just Blake. I mean I won’t tell anyone else, and not about the repeat.”
“The repeat.” The words come out of her mouth like she’s trying them on for size.
“So, what do you say, Lucas?”
I love the way her mouth twitches when I call her by her last name.
Her eyes widen like dinner plates. “What… like, now ?”
“Of course not now. Saturday.”
The shirt she’s holding becomes a crumpled mess when her hands fall into her lap. “I’m not sure you’re grasping the idea of a one-night stand. They aren’t planned, Lucas. If you make plans, that’s called a date. And as an intelligent woman, and one who knows your history, believe me, I know better than to date you.”
“As well you should. So if they aren’t planned, what do you suggest?”
She shakes her head as if she’s having to explain wet to water. “Hookups are spontaneous. You run into each other accidentally or randomly. They just happen.”
I think on it. “So if I were to run into you accidentally on Saturday, where might that happen?”
“Oh, I have big plans on Saturday. Movie marathon.”
“At the multiplex?” I ask, already making plans on how to randomly bump into her.
She looks up at the ceiling. “With Joey.”
For a second, a wave of something that feels an awful lot like jealousy courses through me. “Who the hell is Joey?”
“Wow, you really don’t remember much. Joey—my cat.”
It starts coming back to me. “Ah, right. The furball that hates me.”
She giggles. “That’s the one.”
My ass is starting to get numb sitting on the hard floor. “How am I supposed to accidentally run into you if you’re in your apartment?”
She shrugs, then sighs, like maybe I’m more of an annoyance than an opportunity. “I suppose I could do my Sunday grocery shopping on Saturday after I close up around here.”
“Truman’s?” I ask, thinking it’s only obvious she shops at the small store down the street.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t exactly be accidental, now would it?”
I cock my head, wondering if she’s playing with me, or she genuinely doesn’t give two shits if she watches TV with her cat or gets to knock boots with me.
I stand and hand her the pants I just folded. “Okay then, it’s a d—”
“No, Lucas. It’s not.”
“Right. Well, uh… I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Yup. See you around,” she says, not even glancing up.
Fully dismissed, I study the sign on the door on my way out, making note of what time she closes on Saturday since she didn’t bother telling me. I glance back to catch her watching me do it. She turns away, trying, but failing, to hide her dimpled smile.