Chapter 10
FELIX
India greets the return of her motorcycle with the sort of enthusiasm I would expect from a parent whose beloved child has just come home from studying abroad.
“Hi, Betsy,” she coos, hurrying over to her motorcycle when we enter the garage at Sal’s. “I missed you.”
I blink at her. “I’d have thought your love would cool after you hit the pavement on this thing.”
She takes a deep breath and then turns to me with a smile. “I refuse to let my love cool,” she says through her teeth. “And I refuse to live in fear. I am making something positive out of this experience instead.” Her shoulders seem to relax a bit once she turns back to Betsy; then she gives the seat a fond little pat. “You have a new brother.”
“Me?” I say, brightening. “Is it me? Have I been promoted?”
“What? No,” she says with a snort, looking over her shoulder at me. “It’s my fish. I got a fish. His name is Janis Joplin.”
I just stare at her.
“I call him Joplin,” she says defensively. “And he’s cute. I’ve wanted a pet fish for a long time.”
I hold my hands up to placate her. “Sorry, sorry. I’m very happy for you and Joplin.”
“Thank you,” she says with a sniff. “He’s settling in nicely. He lives on the kitchen table.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, amused. “You know, when you start dating, I think you could win over any guy you meet if you tell him you have a motorcycle named Betsy and a fish named Janis Joplin.”
In truth, she could probably win over any guy she meets just by wearing that outfit, much less doing cute things like naming her motorcycle. I’m not interested in her, of course—she’s firmly in the friends category now—but I’m happy to admire beauty where I see it. She’s wearing loose jeans, a fitted white t-shirt that hugs the curves I absolutely do not pay attention to, and chunky tennis shoes. Her skin glows tanned and golden against the white shirt, and her hair hangs long and unrestrained down her back.
Something about the look takes her usual cuteness and adds a bit of heat. Lots of men might be attracted to the sight she presents this evening.
Not me, obviously. But other men.
“Ignore him,” India says to Betsy, completely oblivious to my objective admiration. “He’s just jealous that a red-haired goddess like myself hasn’t asked him to live on my kitchen table.”
I just smile.
I stand off to the side while India gets things squared away with Sal, watching the way her hair changes color depending on which way she turns her head. Even in the spotty overhead lights, there’s gold and brown and something I’d call strawberry blonde—a shade I recognize because Poppy has educated me. When I realize I’m staring a little too intently, however, I shake my head and look away again.
“You ready?” I say when she wheels Betsy over to me.
“Yep,” she says happily. “I’m good. Let’s go.”
We wave goodbye to Sal, who waves back, and then we head to the car. We hoist Betsy in the same way we did when we brought her.
“All right,” I say, turning to India as the trunk closes. “To the bookstore.”
“Are you buying me food first?”
“No,” I say, my lips twitching. “But there are three mini packs of Oreos in the glove compartment.”
She gasps loudly and overdramatically. “Three whole mini packs? For me? You really know how to spoil a girl.”
“Only the best for you, Sunshine.”
The Pretty Page isn’t at all what I’m expecting. It appears to be little more than a hole in the wall, a red-brick facade sandwiched between a record shop and a bakery.
Main Street is buzzing at this time of day, strings of white lights strung cheerfully overhead, little clumps of shoppers out enjoying the warm evening.
Pleasant—that’s what my mother would call it. The weather, the waning light, the faint threads of music drifting on the breeze. It’s all perfectly pleasant, contentment perfuming the air like the flowering trees that line the street. I take a picture of the street and send it to her, because she likes to hear from me.
India bounces rather than walks next to me once we park, her face alight with happy eyes and curved lips. Despite her sarcasm about my Oreo offering earlier, she polished off all three mini packs on the way over here, and she made cute little eating noises the whole time.
“You’re excited, I see,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“The Pretty Page is one of my favorite places in all of Lucky,” she says. She shoots me a smile. “You wouldn’t believe how much time I spend here. Or how much money,” she adds, and her smile twists a bit with chagrin.
“Hey, it could be worse,” I say as I eye the front of the bookshop. My camera is around my neck, but I don’t take any pictures yet; I will once I get permission, and I’ll definitely want one of the exterior. There are dozens of paper hearts taped to the inside of the display windows, apparently cut from book pages, and a strand of twinkly lights around the edges. “You could be buying drugs,” I go on. “I wouldn’t stress about buying more books.”
“When you say things like that, your attractiveness level goes up at least three notches,” she says matter-of-factly, and I grin.
“So…from a ten out of ten to a fifteen out of ten?”
She shoots me a look. “Be honest with me, Felicia. Do you think ten plus three is fifteen?” But she’s smiling now, too, and I laugh. She reaches for the door handle, but I stop her.
“Hang on,” I say, and she looks at me, confused. “Before we go in, we need to review the assignment. We’re looking for specifically romantic aspects of this place, all right?”
She hears the skepticism in my voice, because she rolls her eyes. “You don’t trust me at all.”
“And especially the aspects that make it good for dates and date-like excursions. Any historical tidbits are welcome too,” I go on.
“Let’s just go in,” she says. “Or do you need a minute?”
I grab the door handle, and it opens with a lurch. India slips past me, and together we step inside.
“Oh, wow,” I say. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and they probably would have escaped even if I’d tried.
Because this bookstore looks less like a shop and more like another world altogether. There are more twinkly lights around the top of the space, and waning sunlight filters in through the windows. I don’t know much about interior design or color schemes, but there are a lot of pastels here, making everything feel light and airy and cheerful—ethereal, even. It smells good, too, like vanilla and cinnamon.
All right. I can see why India loves it here. I kind of like it too.
The girl behind the counter looks up and waves at us, straightening up and setting down the book she’s holding. She’s probably close to India’s age, with pale blonde hair and light eyes.
“India!” she says, a smile stretching across her face. “Hey! You haven’t been by in a while. How’s it going?”
“I know, I’ve been pretty busy,” India says—and I would just like to note that she rarely looks at me like this, open and friendly and free of sarcasm or scorn.
“How come you don’t smile at me like that?” I say to her, noting the curve of her lips. I point at her mouth. “What do I have to do to get one of those?”
“You’re blackmailing me,” India says in a low voice through her smile as the girl behind the counter approaches. “Blackmailers cannot expect friendliness.”
“It’s only a little blackmail,” I protest as we come to a stop next to a row of low bookshelves.
“Buy me pretty books and then we’ll talk.” Then, focusing her attention back on the clerk, she says, “How have you been?”
The girl gestures around the store and laughs. “I’m basically working in heaven, so I’m great.” She turns her gaze on me, her smile growing. “And who’s this tall drink of water?” She pauses, frowns, and says, “Tall glass of water? Or is it tall drink?”
I shrug, shooting her a grin and a wink. “I respond to either.”
“Oh, good,” she says as she reaches us. Then she holds her hand out to me. “I’m Jess,” she says.
“Felix,” I say, glancing back and forth between them. “You lovely ladies are clearly close. India must spend a lot of time here.”
India props one hip against the bookshelf next to us and rests her elbow casually on top. “Guilty as charged,” she says, and Jess laughs.
“She does,” she admits, “but we knew each other before I got a job here. I contributed to a piece at the paper back when India was there, and we kept in touch. I was the one that told her about this place when I started working here.”
It takes a second for her words to register, but when they do, I frown and look at India. “The paper? What—the Gazette?”
India’s smile has frozen, her eyes extinguished as the brightness is replaced by something like discomfort.
“Yeah,” Jess says, but the word comes out slowly. “India interned there…” She trails off, and I glance over to see her gaze on India, her cheery expression fading slowly into something more confused. “I think…? Didn’t you?”
The returning smile India gives us is most definitely fake, like she wants to duck behind that bookshelf she’s leaning on. “I did, a million years ago,” she says, and the words are so forced that I shift awkwardly.
She’s being weird. Why didn’t she tell me she worked at the Gazette? Why wouldn’t she mention anything about it?
I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have time to ask her right now, and this isn’t the place anyway. So when she clears her throat and changes the subject, I let it drop.
“Anyway, Jess,” India says, “I’m here to show Felix around the best bookstore in Lucky.” She gestures around at the shop, and Jess moves on from the previous awkwardness too.
“Well, as the official sales clerk of this shift, allow me to welcome you.” She gives a little bow. “If you need help finding anything let me know. We’re a romance store?—”
“Are you?” I say, surprised. I glance at India, who shoots me a smug look.
Jess nods. “Yes! So we organize our books by trope, and then alphabetically within each section.” Her eyes sparkle as she leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “India finds most of her books in the brother’s best friend section.”
Delight flares to life in my chest, chasing away the shadows left by India’s strange behavior. “Is that so?” I say loudly as a wide smile splits over my lips. Next to me India sighs, and out of the corner of my eye I see her run her hand down her face. “What an interesting choice,” I go on. My voice is positively gleeful, and I don’t try to tone it down. “Is brother’s best friend a popular trope?”
“Oh, hugely popular,” Jess says with a nod. “The forbidden aspect, the sneaking around behind the brother’s back—” She breaks off and sighs dreamily. “And that perfect moment when the guy has always thought of her as a little sister, but suddenly he sees her again and she’s all grown up?—”
A twinge of disconcertion plucks at my insides.
“And then the guy can’t reconcile this gorgeous creature in front of him with the little girl he remembers?—”
My smile wavers as that twinge becomes more pronounced.
“Then bam, they suddenly can’t keep their hands off each other?—”
And this is when I malfunction as a human being.
I choke on nothing but the air I’m trying to breathe—like an idiot. I hack and splutter and absolutely do not think about my hands on India, or even near India. I hurtle through time and space as I try to get oxygen back in my lungs, and I think only about Cyrus and his grumpy face.
By the time I rejoin the conversation five seconds later, India and Jess are looking at me with concern, but there is thankfully no more talk of hands.
“I’m just”—I gesture to the store—“going to look around a bit.” My words are a little strained after my oxygen deprivation; I need a second to breathe.
India and Jess both nod as I drift away, strolling down one of the aisles. It still smells good in here, and it’s warm, too; a sweet, relaxing environment.
Perfect. I need to relax myself into a different state of mind—one where I don’t think about my best friend’s little sister.
I let my gaze wander over the rest of the place as India and Jess continue to chat. In bigger bookstores you often find nice leather chairs for people to sit and read or just to wait. There’s none of that here. Instead there are several large beanbags; two pink, one white, all over in the far corner. I head in that direction, looking curiously at the unique choice of seating.
This corner has extra twinkly lights, I notice when I get there, and there’s a plush rug laid down. Everything is comfortable and—and something. What’s the word I would use for this space?
“Isn’t this dreamy?” India says with a happy sigh from behind me, and I startle.
Yes. That’s the exact term. Dreamy.
“It is,” I admit. I hesitate and then go on, “Dreamy.”
I have never used that word in my life. I will tell no one it has now passed my lips.
I flop down onto the pink beanbag, and it swallows me whole. I’m going to have trouble getting back up. “I could nap here,” I say.
India nods enthusiastically. “Right?” she says. “And if you’re looking for romantic…” She waves around. “This is it. Look.” She takes a few steps closer and then lowers herself carefully onto the pink bag next to me, clearly doing her best not to land on top of me.
The beanbag readjusts itself to swallow both of us now, and I find my body tilting toward hers, our sides pressing together, our arms smooshed between us. If she were a woman I was romantic with, it would be easiest—totally natural—to pull her onto my lap instead.
Yes. India was right and I was wrong. This place is undeniably romantic.
“See?” she says from next to me, and I turn my head to look at her.
Close. She’s so close, her eyes bright and happy, her face refreshingly natural. I don’t mind makeup on a woman. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, I have no right to have an opinion about that at all. But there’s something fresh about India—something easy and wholesome and effortless.
“A man and a woman could sit just like this,” she says. “They could read passages from their favorite books together. They could read love stories.”
“I saw a couple sit there one time and read fairy spice together,” Jess pipes up from our left, approaching through the shelves. “She kept giggling and talking about wingspan .”
This doesn’t mean much to me, but somehow I feel my cheeks heating anyway, and India shifts awkwardly next to me.
I clear my throat. “So tell me about this place,” I say.
Jess nods, leaning against a shelf and looking around. “I think we opened five years ago,” she says. “I haven’t worked here that whole time. I came two years ago. But she’s a bit of a novelty, which means we do steady business. It helps that it’s one of the only bookshops in Lucky. The bigger chains are all in Boulder.”
I make note of these facts, trying to commit them to memory so I can use them in the article. “And you’re organized by genre?” I say.
“By trope,” India corrects me.
Jess nods again. “It’s not a perfect system. I don’t know if we’ll stay this way forever. I kind of like it, though,” she says, lowering her voice, “because I can see what everyone is reading. I like to guess, sometimes, when they come in.”
India laughs. “I would probably do that too.”
“People will surprise you,” Jess says. “We keep our shelving sections strictly PG, but I saw a very prim, proper-looking woman one time march straight past the classics and head to the dark romance. I thought she was here for Anne of Green Gables or Little Women. But nope—she was poking around the shelf with one of our age gap authors.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You know— Secret Baby for Daddy’s Motorcycle Bestie , or something.” Jess shrugs. “I was way off. Different strokes for different folks, am I right?”
She is right, but I am officially pressed too close to India for this conversation. In fact, I am too everything for this conversation, and I would love to talk about something else.
I heave myself to my feet with significant trouble, because this beanbag is a black hole intent on sucking me in forever, but I finally manage to stumble back upright. I brush my shirt off even though it’s not dirty, just to give me something to do with my hands, and then I turn to Jess.
“So you have classics, a section for brother’s best friend romances—what else is there?”
“Sports romances are big,” Jess says, ticking it off with one finger. “Romantic comedies are their own section. Workplace—we have a subsection for that within the rom com section. We carry some romantic suspense, but not a ton.” She shrug again. “The thing is, most romance novels contain more than one trope. So we sort of just do our best.”
I nod. “Well, I’ll check her out,” I say. “Thanks, Jess.”
She nods slowly and gives me a funny look before waving at India. “Let me know if you need anything!”
“I will,” India says as she stands up too, but her eyes are on me. Jess returns to her book behind the counter, and still India stares at me.
“What?” I say, a little defensive.
“You’ll check who out?” she says instead of responding to my very reasonable question.
I blink at her. “What?”
She straightens up and folds her arms slowly across her chest, her eyes narrowing with interest. “You said you would check her out,” she says. “After you got done being super awkward about different kinds of romances, you said you’d ‘check her out.’ I’ll check her out. That’s what you said.”
I shift uncomfortably and snort. “I said I’d check them out. Them . Not her.”
“No,” India says as a smile creeps over her lips, a sly expression I don’t at all care for. “I’m very certain you said her . So what’s that little Freudian slip about, hmm?” She takes a step toward me as her head tilts. “Who are you checking out, Caine? It wouldn’t be your best friend’s sister, would it?”
My denial seems to be stuck in my throat, lodged in there along with my heart as it thunders against my Adam’s apple.
“Only sometimes,” I find myself saying, the words hoarse.
Time stops as the admission leaves my mouth—it’s just the two of us in the entire world, staring at each other, both of us surprised by what I’ve just said.
India recovers first. “Mmm,” she hums, stepping closer still, her eyes dancing—with humor, yes, but also with something sharper, more aware.
A siren begins to blare in my brain, accompanied by a flashing red light— Warning! Warning! —and yet my feet are rooted to the spot, my body somehow frozen and burning at the same time.
“What are you doing?” I croak as India stares up at me. Be cool! I scream at myself, but I am not cool. I am sweating in places I don’t normally sweat, and I have no idea why.
“Only sometimes?” she says instead of answering.
“Only sometimes,” I confirm, and I’m pleased to find that although my voice is still hoarse, I at least sound more steady now.
“I thought you said I wasn’t your type,” she says softly.
Hmm. I did say that. It was mostly true. I clear my throat and then speak. “You’re not. When I look at you, it’s only as an objective admirer of beauty.” I let my gaze flit over her briefly. “You look good in white. Your hair is pretty. That kind of thing.” I cringe internally as the words leave my mouth, because they make me sound like a middle school kid writing his first Valentine’s Day card.
“Don’t flirt with me, Felicia,” she says with a snort, but her gaze is serious as she goes on, “I don’t want to fall for you again. Got it?”
My brain stills as she steps back.
“Again?” I say.
“Let’s get on with it,” she says briskly. She nods to the camera around my neck. “Do you need to take pictures? Go ask Jess if you’re allowed. I’m going to wait outside.” She swallows and addresses a spot somewhere over my left shoulder. “It’s kind of warm in here.”