Chapter 4 The Beast
Chapter 4
the beast
“Are we talking Gumball Pink or Cotton Candy Pink on those cheekies?” Summer’s best friend, Cleo, asked. She was sitting on the checkout counter handing Summer novels for the bookshop’s new front window display.
“Does it matter?”
It had been six days since her run-in with the brooding British villain and she was still irate. Sure, his workers no longer parked in her lot. Instead, they were taking up all the street spaces, their big, obnoxious trucks blocking her storefront from passersby.
Still, the bookshop was full of customers, some perusing the shelves, others relaxing with friends in the reading area over espressos while talking about their latest reads. In the far corner was the Smut Club, who were engaged in a hot debate over how many chili peppers their latest book pick should receive.
“Definitely a five,” Mable, the club’s fierce leader, said.
“Just because they used C-O-C-K over M-A-N-R-O-O-T doesn’t make it a five, Mable,” Claire pointed out.
“If you’re spelling out the words, it makes it a five-chili-pepper read,” Mable shot back.
Mable was a grandmother and nine-time bass fishing champion. Claire was a college student getting a degree in botany. Yet every month the two came together, with a group of other erotica enthusiasts, to talk about a shared passion. They bickered and hugged it out like they were family.
That’s what this was, Summer marveled. A family. Started by her grandmother, nurtured by her mother and auntie, and now blossoming under Summer’s watchful care.
“It absolutely matters!” Cleo said, bringing Summer back to the conversation at hand. “When it comes to men, details matter. See, Gumball Pink means you’re playful in bed and you don’t mind a little blow action. Wild Orchid hints at the fact that you own a red room and there’s a ninety percent chance you have a hidden runway behind your lace that’s ready for takeoff. Tickle Me Pink, well, that’s self-explanatory. Fun fact. Did you know that ninety-five percent of women find that ear play is as erotic as rear play? It gives the whole ‘little tickle behind the ear’ new meaning. By the way, my secret tickle place is—”
“Not important to this conversation.”
“I forget you’re a prude.”
“I sling some of the best smut on the East Coast. We’re talking reverse harems, BDSM, shapeshifting unicorns with unearthly large and magical horns. That sounds pretty Wild Orchid to me.”
Cleo snorted, so Summer went back to her window display. She took her displays seriously. It was a customer’s first impression, and she worked hard to showcase every author in a way that captured the uniqueness of their works. The way the words intertwined, the subtle rhythm of the sentences, the lyrical quality of each paragraph—every author approached writing in their own special way. Then there was how each story was woven together, the careful balance between humor, heartache, and hope.
Hope was what had gotten Summer through some of the hardest times of her life, and encouraged her to shoot for the sky and reach the stars. When Summer was little and her family had lost their home, and Summer had to leave her school and friends behind, her dad had told her that the universe had something even better in store for her—and that year she’d met her soul-sister, Cleo.
Years later, when Summer was a junior in college and her mom had told her the heartbreaking news that the bookstore was in trouble, Summer had quit college, taken out a loan, and revived All Things Cupid, making it the center of the book community in Ridgefield. Last year, her little shop had been named one of the best bookstores in Connecticut.
In her heart, she knew her nonna would be so proud. And if she lost sight of that or the doubt crept in, all she had to do was look at the photo of her grandparents, fresh off the boat from Italy, sharing a kiss that had sparked a tradition of love and romance for the generations to come.
Summer was a quiet dreamer by nature, but a big dreamer in her heart—a trait she’d inherited from her dad and a trait she hoped to pass down to her own children someday.
All Things Cupid might look like a traditional bookshop with its floor-to-ceiling stacks, antique rolling ladders, and plush leather couches and barrel chairs situated in several intimate reading areas, but it was an independent bookstore that specialized in romance and beach reads. And hanging behind the checkout counter were several black-and-white photos of her family commemorating all the special moments in this shop. Her favorite picture was the one of Nonna and Papa Russo standing in front of the shop for the store’s grand opening, sharing a kiss that was the pure embodiment of victory and romance: two things Summer wanted to uphold. She’d achieved it in her work and was now searching for it in her personal life.
“Just for curiosity’s sake, what does Cotton Candy Pink imply?” Summer asked.
Her best friend crossed her arms smugly. “Let me guess. Asking for a friend?”
Summer lifted a defiant brow.
“Fine. Ballerina Pink, Carnation Pink, all the pastels, tell a guy that you stream a lot of Hallmark movies and do your own lady-scaping. Pretty much, romance on a budget.”
Summer refused to cover her face, but she did feel it flush with embarrassment.
Cleo was a welder by trade, a ballbuster by choice, and the part-time manager of All Things Cupid because she’d known Summer needed the help and in her loyalty had stepped up. Crafted from steel, street smarts, and questionable choices, she was a romantic hiding behind realist armor. Which was why she wore steel-toe boots with vampire-red hearts on them.
“What about Quartz Rose?” Summer asked casually, pretending all her focus was on the window display she was revamping to make room for the latest releases. “Understated sexy with a magical-mystery twist?”
“Depends. Does your LadyLand give magical orgasms, or is it a mystery like in Romancing the Stone where they need a treasure map?”
“Can we stop calling it that?”
“How about Vagayjay?”
“What? Are we in high school?”
“Bajingo?”
“Middle school?”
“Right, I’m talking to a romance expert. How about something more novel?”
“Har-har.”
“Slit,” Cleo said in her best sex-operator voice. “Heat. Core. Depths. Meat curtains. Femininity. Womanhood. Oh—I know—her portal .”
“Is it going to take him to another dimension?”
“If you were wearing Wild Orchid it would.”
A chuckle rattled out of Summer. “I doubt that Screw Me Scarlet would have helped with Dr. Daniel. He friend-zoned me even before he saw my panties.”
Regardless of what Daniel had said about his current lack of interest in dating, his lack had something to do with the fact that Summer wasn’t Autumn. There had been overflowing interest on his side that first day they met at the park, even some flirt and banter on the walk, but when he’d complimented her eyes, Summer had stumbled over her words and his expression had shifted ever so slightly. That was the moment Summer had been moved from the GIRLFRIEND POTENTIAL LANE across NO POTENTIAL HIGHWAY and straight to FRIEND ZONE JAIL —she did not pass go and nor did she collect her kiss.
“Panties? God, you need an intervention. Life isn’t a Nora Ephron movie, Summer. It’s loud and messy with lots of twists and unexpected turns. And it involves thongs and G-strings.”
“That’s what romance is all about,” she said defensively.
“G-strings?”
“A chance first encounter with a charming man where amusing and canny antics ensue, followed by witty banter and, of course, a first kiss under the stars.”
“Look at Jane Eyre . The typical governess-falls-for-a-nobleman trope. Only said man has his first wife locked in the attic just because she fought back against the patriarchy. It’s a meet-cute turned Stephen King.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t go on dating apps. It’s easier to spot serial killers when you can see the whites of their eyes.”
“Bertha met Mr. Rochester IRL. Meg Ryan met Tom Hanks over the internet. Which seems safer?”
Summer let out a semi-defeated sigh. “Going on Tinder would feel like giving up. I don’t want a hookup. I want a connection.”
“I met Hunter on Tinder and we connected. All over the kitchen, workout room, and patio. We’re going out again this Saturday and I’m hoping we connect multiple more times.” Cleo stared at Summer. “When was the last time you connected with someone else physically in the room?”
Without looking up from her window display, Summer flipped Cleo off. “I don’t need an app to help me find a date. I do just fine on my own.”
“Maybe, but you need help landing a second date.”
“That’s not true. I went out twice with, uh, what was his name? The podiatrist.”
“And he started talking about proper foot care and parenting methods.”
“Parenting is an important topic.”
“Yeah, if he already had kids.” Cleo picked up a steampunk romance from the stack and handed it to Summer. She lovingly placed the book on a stand that was covered in metal gears and had a pocket watch hanging from the corner. She’d been inspired at three in the morning when she’d finished rereading Shadow and Bone .
“You know what your problem is?” Cleo asked.
“Probably, but I know how much you like to be right, so go on.”
“You date guys who are exactly like you. Studious, housebound, who live in a book and have companions with four legs that tend to drool when in the vicinity of bacon.”
Summer shrugged. “So I date guys I’m compatible with.”
“You date boring guys, who think banter is asking about your favorite color.”
As Summer met her friend’s gaze, her own narrowed. “Great, so you’re saying I got friend-zoned by a boring doctor who thinks I’m a dog sitter?”
“You got friend-zoned because you think with your head and not your heart. For a romantic, you’re pretty slow when it comes to relationships,” Cleo said. “You have to ask yourself, what do you really want? A funny story to tell at parties or someone who lights your fire?”
Summer wanted all the things every hopeless romantic wanted—a perfect meet-cute, followed by insta-love, and finally the dream wedding, ending with a honeymoon in Paris. She wanted two kids, twins—like her and her sister—a house in the suburbs, and the kind of marriage romance novels were made of.
First though, she needed to find herself a qualified candidate. She thought she’d found the one once, a gentle, caring fellow booklover who worked as an editor for a Los Angeles paper. They had similar habits, so much in common, and were perfectly compatible. He’d checked all the boxes—except the passion box.
Gah, she hated being incorrect, but Cleo had a point. Maybe she was going about this all wrong.
“Fine,” she said, handing over her phone. “You get one app and not Tinder. Make it one where people aren’t just looking for meaningless hookups.”
“Meaningful hookups. Got it.” Cleo snatched up Summer’s phone like it was a slice of chocolate cake. “I know just the app. RoChance. There’s this extensive questionnaire to ensure you’re paired with compatible people who share the same hobbies and interests.”
Compatible. Hobbies. Interests. That didn’t sound so scary.
“Plus, there are photos so you can accept or reject from the comfort of your own couch.”
“No dick pics.”
Cleo rolled her eyes. “I don’t see how you can adequately vet a guy without a proper dick pic, but it’s your love life so I’ll check the No Dick Pic box. Whenever a potential soulmate is in the vicinity it will ping you, and then you have the choice to approach him or not.” Cleo’s finger flew over the screen of Summer’s phone, and a few minutes later she handed it back. “Done.”
“I thought you said it was extensive.”
“I didn’t overthink it. I just went with the first answer that came to mind.” Cleo wiggled her fingers like exploding fireworks. “Plus, these babies are like lightning. Give it a few minutes and then you should start getting some matches. I give it a day tops before your DMs are overflowing.”
“I’d be happy with a nice, sweet, local guy.”
Cleo made the sound of a buzzer. “You’ve done nice, sweet locals. You need something different. Maybe a caveman type or a mafia boss who is set on making you his bitch because your baby brother wronged him.”
“I don’t have a brother. You do.”
Cleo smiled. “Right, so I get the mafia boss. You get the billionaire bad boy who falls for the small-town bookshop owner and is into ear play.”
Summer was about to argue that she preferred betas to alphas and that ear play wasn’t a real thing, when something out the window caught her eye. “What the hell!”
“It’s just an opinion,” Cleo said, but Summer wasn’t listening.
Because there, sitting innocently on the main strip of road that went through the heart of Ridgefield, parked between The Codfather and Thai Titanic and directly in front of the soon-to-open BookLand, sat her 1955 Sunbeam Alpine Mark III replica—that was a dead ringer for the car Cary Grant and Grace Kelly had driven in To Catch a Thief , and was the car she and her dad had built from the engine up—about to be accosted by a dirty yellow tow truck. And next to the curb, holding a coffee-to-go, was Satan’s younger brother.
“Oh no you don’t!” Summer dropped the stack of books she was holding and made a mad dash out the door and across the street, the bell jingling angrily behind her as the door slammed. She arrived just as Merle, of Merle’s Tow she just wasn’t sure she could aim high enough to take down Goliath.
“Is this some game?” she asked.
His smile vanished and he seemed almost confused by her comment. “It’s business, love. You’re the one who started the war, and the first rule in war is know your enemy’s weakness.”
“I thought the first rule of war was to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I guess that would be hard though, since Satan doesn’t have friends.”
“And that’s your weakness.”
She blinked. “What? Having friends? You should try it. It might soften the Goliath complex you have going on.”
And the scowl was back. “No—believing in the good in people.”
“That’s a weakness?”
“It is in business.”
Just then, a double ping sounded. They both looked at Merle, who shrugged. “It’s not me.”
Their eyes met again as they each fished their phone from their pocket. Summer’s mouth went slack when she saw the notification from RoChance. She had her first match. Not wanting to betray the fact that she was on a dating app, she casually pretended like it was an incoming text. Only, when she swiped open her phone and saw the little cupid arrow above the picture of her soulmate, she practically dropped her cell. Horror. Sheer horror coursed through her at the picture filling her screen.
She looked up to find Wes looking back, a superior smile on his face. “Did you just swipe right on me?” he asked.
“There is RoChance in hell that I’d ever swipe right on you. And this isn’t a swipe-right kind of app.” Cleo had told her as much. “It’s more of an AI Cupid at play. It pings every time a potential soulmate is in the vicinity.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “My brother signed me up as a joke.”
He said it as if only a romantically challenged idiot would be on the app. “For the record, I didn’t sign up either. My friend did,” said Summer.
“That would be me,” Cleo said, and Summer nearly jumped. She’d been so distracted by the pompous ass in front of her, she hadn’t even realized Cleo had joined them or that a crowd had gathered. A crowd who was watching them like they were an episode of Days of Our Lives . “I am the friend in question.”
“‘Friend’ is a strong word,” she hissed at Cleo, who just smiled. “And clearly the algorithm is broken!” She shoved her phone back in her pocket, watching as Wes did the same. They stared each other down, neither willing to give in.
“So, about the price of the tow . . .” Merle began.
“I’ll get it,” they said in unison, and the crowd fell silent.
“Fine, you pay,” Summer finally said. “Think of it as the cost of war.”
“It’s just one battle, love. The war is far from over.” With that, Wes spun on his thousand-dollar dress shoes and disappeared into his store.
“Well,” Cleo said with a smile. “That was different.”