Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ALICE
Charlie wasn’t kidding about book club.
We hurry a few blocks across town, stopping at a bakery along the way to pick up something called Gold Rush cupcakes. Then we’re standing in front of the strangest row of shops I’ve ever seen. An entire block that looks like it’s straight out of a cowboy western on TV.
“Where are we?”
That question comes out breathless, but I can’t help it. I feel like Dorothy when she got her first glimpse of Oz. Or Charlie is the White Rabbit, and I’ve followed him into Wonderland.
He gestures to the whole block before pointing out one building in particular. “This is Old Town, and that’s where we meet for book club.”
This man actually goes to a book club? I figured that was another lie, an excuse to get us out of the bus station after his boss showed up. But this is better than a lie.
Every word he said feels magical, and I take it one marvel at a time. Adorable street first. “Old Town?”
“Ponderosa Falls was a mining settlement during the Gold Rush, and this was our first official Main Street…before it burned down.”
He points to the buildings on the right. “That side mostly survived the fire. Our town historical society had the buildings restored, so they could turn them into a museum. But that side of the street”—his hand sweeps to the left—“burned to the ground. It didn’t get rebuilt until the 1920s, after we got a generous donation from a bootlegger who was hiding out in Colorado from the cops. Now it’s just regular restaurants and shops.”
Again, a lot of amazing words came out of that man’s mouth all at once, and they echo in my head. Words like “historical society” or “generous donation from a bootlegger.” I pick my favorite tidbit first, going nice and slow. Lest I faint from delight.
“Half of it is a history museum?” I love history almost as much as I love books, sometimes more, and nothing could make me happier than a museum in the middle of nowhere. Finding a small-town gem like that is like finding buried treasure.
Charlie nods. “It’s one of those places where the staff dresses up, and it’s like one big reenactment. We used to go on field trips here in elementary school.”
Be still, my heart.
Period costumes?
Reenactments?
“A living history museum?” I practically swoon right there on the sidewalk, and Charlie bites back a grin.
“If you play your cards right, maybe we can stop by the museum before I take you to the bus station tomorrow. Maybe. If we have time.”
Oh, we’ll have time. I give Charlie my best hopeful look, batting my eyelashes and everything. He chuckles before glancing away.
It takes two seconds for my nervous system to kick in, reminding me that batting my eyelashes at a stranger is probably a mistake. It’s only been a few hours since we met. The last thing I need is him getting the wrong idea. Normally, I don’t have any problem being careful around new guys, but something about Charlie keeps making me forget.
Focus, Alice.
Remember your training.
I’m the daughter of Jeffrey “Self Defense is the Best Defense” Kilpatrick; caution might as well be my middle name. But too much has happened today. I’ve been so exhausted, I haven’t had the energy to worry about Charlie or stranger danger. Though now I’m ready to make up for lost time.
As we wait to cross the street, a rush of anxiety blooms in my stomach. A feeling that only grows as we stand there side by side—probably because I’ll be spending the night at Charlie’s house.
He offered to let me stay with him on our walk across town, and I’m amazed how quickly I said yes. How I didn’t even question it until now. As if that man could make any bad idea sound good.
That anxious feeling almost swallows me whole. But then Charlie glances over when it’s time to cross the road, and my fears fade a little. His Gilbert Blythe eyes are just that friendly.
He leads the way to the bookstore, but I stop when I notice the sign in the front window that announces today’s event.
Cold Nights, Warm Books: A Christmas Romance Book Club
As much as I love every word on that sign, I know it has to be a mistake. Holiday romances are my weakness, but I’m sure they aren’t his. “I think you got your dates mixed up. Tonight is romance night.”
Charlie only shrugs. He’s balancing two trays of cupcakes with a skateboard under his arm, and he struggles to open the door. I lunge to help, scurrying after him when he ducks inside.
I don’t regret it.
The shop is called The BookSlinger, and it’s even better once you walk in, the old western facade out front giving way to a bookstore that looks like it’s nestled in an old saloon. Everything is dark and cozy around us, from the thick velvet drapes to the polished wood floor and brass fixtures. The mahogany bookshelves against the walls reach all the way to the ceiling while shorter bookshelves create a neat maze throughout the room. There’s even an old bar up front where the cash register is, framed by a long row of barstools. As if you could sit at the counter all day and chat with the woman who runs the place.
Charlie waves to her on our way in, calling her Mrs. LePage and asking about her day. As she grins back from behind the register, I notice her name tag says Loretta. And if Loretta LePage isn’t the perfect name for a woman who runs an old-west-style bookstore, I don’t know what is.
Her shop has everything, from self-help to thrillers to epic fantasy. There’s even the cutest children’s area I’ve ever seen, and we’re halfway to the back of the room before I realize how ironic this is. How I’ve managed to wind up in the exact wrong place, today of all days.
I’m in a bookstore.
On my anniversary.
Jason and I met in one of these exactly a year ago today. When we bumped into each other and he made a grumpy-cute remark about all the romances I was buying before asking me out for coffee. And now I’m here—right after he broke up with me.
Bookstores used to be my special happy place, but now it feels like they were our happy place. Did my ex ruin bookstores for me?
It isn’t just him. I’ve been an indie author for almost four years, but I haven’t released a new book in thirteen months, breaking every promise I made to my readers along the way. Walking through The BookSlinger is like returning to the scene of multiple crimes—crimes I’m trying very hard to forget.
I take a deep breath to steady myself, and Charlie nudges my shoulder. “Are you okay over there, Carrots?”
I don’t know why that works, how that one little nickname relaxes me instantly. Nodding, I give him a grateful smile.
“Romance book club, huh?” I nudge him back to lighten the mood. “You didn’t seem like the type.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Romance readers bring better snacks. The dystopian club can’t even remember to buy a bag of pretzels.”
He sets the cupcakes down on a refreshment table near the back wall. Opening one of the boxes, he snags each of us a cupcake of our own. Placing mine on a small paper napkin, he hands it over as we head to our final destination: a small circle of comfortable chairs tucked in a cozy reading nook.
We’re the only ones here so far, but it doesn’t take long for two older women to show up. After watching how warmly Mrs. LePage greeted Charlie, I’m surprised how icy these new women are. They don’t even glance over when he says hello.
They aren’t the only ones. Once more people show up, I’m amazed how split the group seems. The women in his book club either adore Charlie or avoid him like the plague, and unfortunately, that last group is larger than the other.
I can’t figure out why it’s happening. Charlie seems nice enough—he’s gone out of his way to help me multiple times. Why do so many people dislike him?
For the most part, he seems to take it in stride. Though when I try to catch his eye to make sure he’s okay, Charlie doesn’t look over. His mood has dimmed, and it doesn’t lift again until a blonde our age shows up, beaming at him like he hung the moon.
“You picked up the cupcakes? You’re a lifesaver . Sorry I was running late.”
After grabbing a cupcake for herself at the refreshment table, she comes back to sit on the other side of me before introducing herself as Lydia. “Are you the girl who’s staying with us tonight?”
She says that like it’s not an inconvenience, as if she’s looking forward to it. My worries about being a burden melt away. Lydia chats with me a little more, and I like her instantly. She has one of those warm, sunny faces that makes her mood feel contagious. And she’s being so nice to me.
After the day I’ve had, I’m desperate to return the favor. To say something kind or interesting that will make us fast friends—then I notice the book in her lap. Their Christmas romance pick for the month of May: The Duke’s Winter Wish.
Everyone’s got a copy except Charlie—he has the ebook pulled up on his phone—but I don’t have to check the paperbacks around me to know who wrote it. An author can spot their own cover a mile away, and my cheeks flame. My face might actually be on fire.
At least there’s no author photo on the back of the book, no easy way to identify me. What’s the point of being an author with a secret pen name if you make it easy to figure out who you are? Except I haven’t been secretive enough…
Social media strikes again.
I’m in full panic mode, wondering how I’m going to survive these sweet old ladies tearing apart my book, when everything gets worse. When a woman a few chairs away tilts her head, eyeing me like she knows me from somewhere.
Instagram .
That’s the only place she could possibly know me from, the only corner of the internet where I’ve ever shown my face.
Before I can run or don a clever disguise, a different woman—the one running things—glances around the circle of chairs. “All right, Pondies. Let’s get started.”
But that’s as far as we get. The Staring Menace a few chairs away gasps in recognition, and her voice rings out across the bookstore. Echoing off all that old-west charm like a gunshot at the O.K. Corral.
“It’s Anne Livingston.”