9. Noelle
NINE
NOELLE
After Hildy came in yesterday, another college student, this one from Hunter, walked in.
Danny’s an English major with a beat-up leather messenger bag and a voice that could lull anyone into buying poetry.
He practically vibrated with excitement when I showed him the poetry section and asked for input on how to improve it.
He asked if I’d ever consider having a poetry contest or would possibly allow readings here once a month if he organized them like he did at the place he was looking to quit due to the fact that he has never seen his boss, who is rude to everyone who comes in and actually booed someone at the last reading night he will ever schedule, open a book. Hired immediately.
Priya and Andi are two of the college students who came to buy books for the literary program.
They both need to work enough hours to pay for their coffee and book addiction.
Ten to fifteen hours a week will do. Priya noticed we had Austen in two different sections before I did.
Anyone who spots that in under ten minutes is someone I want watching over my shelves.
Andi, a book blogger on social media, asked if I would mind if she used my shelves as props during her breaks, provided she would shout out the place.
Um, hell yes. If all goes well, I may ask her to take over our social media accounts.
Sofie came back this morning with files; she’d done her own reference checks since I didn’t. They all passed with flying colors. I knew they would.
Thanks to that Help Wanted ad, I have four new qualified part-time employees, and all of them are here today because Angie talked me into training them all at once .
Danny is perched on a stool behind the register, talking a customer into a poetry collection like he’s selling stock options.
Hildy is already reorganizing the biographies—bless her precision-loving heart.
Priya and Andi are chatting up a pair of teens, pulling YA titles with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me want to cry.
I’m equal parts happy and worried. Pembrooke Books is paid for, but the taxes and insurance are incredibly high, a mortgage of its own.
I don’t want my dream to fail, and now I have people who talk about books the way I do, and love written words the way I do, and I pray I don’t fail them and myself, too.
But Angie, who knows how apprehensive I have been, keeps whispering sales totals as the hours tick by, to settle my soul, and they are not little numbers.
In fact, the numbers by two were twice what they were yesterday.
And yes, Angie told me that meant the wages were already covered for all four for their entire shift.
I know it won’t be like this every day, but if this is a Wednesday, which is traditionally slow, I can only imagine how the weekend will go. But imagining it will have to do, since I plan to leave tomorrow for Lauren and Louie’s wedding in Greenwich.
In between all of this, while the shop was busy, Angie asked if I should be writing, and that’s when my phone rang, and I saw Dash Sterling was video calling me.
“Why are you calling me?”
He smiled in that magnificent way only a man like Dash Sterling and romance heroes do and said, “I wanted a front-row seat.”
“To what?”
The dress is in the bag beside me. It is something I would have never ever picked out for myself, and had the whole bookstore not been full of people looking at me, and the sweetest woman named Elena, so excited to see me in the dress, I would have hung up on him.
I would have also absolutely not worn the dress.
It’s too much … and then I saw the shoes.
When I sent the girls a pic, crickets, not one response. I came up with a hundred excuses in thirty minutes to send regrets or just not show up … until Sofie, Nalani, and Claudia, carrying Savannah, burst through the doors.
My snuggle time with Savannah not only calmed me but made me realize I would never want any future children of mine to see me the way I was behaving, like I didn’t deserve to dress up like this from time to time or deserve to feel … pretty.
By the time they left, I had a hair, makeup, and nail appointment three hours before the wedding, a KET girl from Fairfield College was coming to my hotel with her arsenal to work her magic.
Magic that Andi found reel after reel on IG, and Sofie set up.
She wouldn’t tell me the cost, just that she got the KET sister discount. Everything will be perfect.
Yet here I am, ten minutes from my hotel, not excited at all for any of it. I want to go to the hotel, peel off my boots, crawl into crisp sheets, maybe even order something ridiculous from room service, and write the book that makes my heart sing. And that’s when my phone lights up.
Lauren.
I hesitate a second too long, and yes, I feel bad for it, but a little less than I would have a few days ago.
I swipe. “Hey, Laur?—”
“Oh my God, Noelle, thank God,” she barrels through, high-pitched, frantic. “I need you right now. Right now. ”
My stomach clenches. “What’s going on?”
“The florists are here at the Delamar, and they’ve completely butchered my arrangement mock-ups. I told them white peonies only, and they show up with roses. Roses! Like we’re having formal at a four-star hotel.”
I rub my temple. “Lauren, I?—”
“I can’t deal with this. They’re looking at me like I’m a lunatic, and I need you. You’re calm, you have that … nice way of talking to people.” She drops her tone and whispers, “Like them. You’ll fix it. Please, Noelle.”
It’s her please that does it—sticky-sweet, impossible to argue with without seeming like the unreasonable one.
I sigh to myself. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
After I end the call, I lean forward and ask, “Is it possible to drop me off at Delamar? I can get a ride to my hotel from there.”
“Of course, Miss Pembrooke.”
When I walk into the Antibes Ballroom, it’s like stepping into another planet. High ceilings draped in fabric, chandeliers glowing soft gold, and Lauren in the middle of it all, like a queen holding court.
Her friends are clustered around her in sequined sweaters and designer boots, champagne flutes already in hand. They turn when I walk in, some curious, some smirking.
It hits me the second I see her—Lauren hasn’t changed.
Not one bit. Blonde hair smoothed into effortless waves, skin glowing like she’s never met stress.
Nalani once described her as Cameron Diaz to my Anne Hathaway, comedic compared to pretty.
To me, it has always been more aptly described as her bombshell brightness while I’m the afterthought in the corner.
And just like always, she fills the room the second she steps into it.
Hell, it even feels like the chandeliers tilt to give her the right light.
For a heartbeat, I feel nostalgic—this is my oldest friend from college, the girl I grew up with in a sense. We had so many good times, so many of my firsts were shared with her.
Lauren sweeps toward me, relief plastered on her face like stage makeup. “You came!” she says loud enough for her circle to hear. “I knew you’d save me.”
I smile politely. Humble. Helpful. The role she’s written for me.
The florist, a young guy with sweat beading on his forehead, looks like he wants to crawl under a table. I step in, soften my voice, and ask a few questions. Within fifteen minutes, I’ve negotiated them into swapping roses for peonies—at least by the wedding day.
Everyone’s calmer. Lauren even claps her hands and gushes, “See? Didn’t I tell you she always got the job done?”
The circle of friends laugh, maybe not unkindly, but not with me either. I feel like I’m part of the entertainment.
At this moment, I wonder if she called because she needed me or because she wanted to show them she has someone who will drop everything for her, and maybe let them know that they, too, are replaceable.
But I’m here …
As soon as the florist wheels the offending roses out, I smile at Lauren. “Glad I could help. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, you’re not staying?” Lauren pouts. “We were about to open another bottle.”
“I’m wiped,” I say, keeping my tone light, apologetic. “Hotel’s calling my name.”
She doesn’t press. She doesn’t need to. She already got what she wanted. Whip cracked, job done, point made.
By the time I make it back outside and see the SUV still waiting, I realize I now have a bitter taste in my mouth. But hey, I did what I could. I smoothed feathers. And I left without ruffling any.
The driver gets out of the SUV and opens the door.
“Thank you for waiting. I’m sorry to take up more of your time.”
“It’s not a problem.” I slide in, and he asks. “Are you okay?”
I tell him, “I’m just ready to call it a day.” Instead of admitting that sometimes being humble feels a lot like being small .
Dash said not to go, and so did Sofie. But I have to. This is a breakup in a way, and I refuse to let things end bad … ever again .
The hotel room is beautiful. Warm, soft, and quiet.
Well, except for the TV flickering in the corner.
My laptop sits open on my lap, cursor blinking on a blank page that feels like it’s mocking me.
I should be writing. I have words swirling in my head, but they’re not making sense, and it just feels wrong to force them into existence.
They need a break. So, I’m sprawled across the bed, watching the Brooklyn Bears take on Utah.
It started as background noise, just something to fill the silence while I stared at the cursor.
But then I caught sight of number 19 on the screen.
He looks less relaxed than he usually does.
Dash is never stressed. In fact, he’s the stressor on the ice.
Koa is grittier, Theo is the brains, the conductor, and Dash is the one jawing at his opponent, playing the crowd. He’s the cocky one.
Something’s wrong. He’s too … focused?