The One I Tried to Ignore (Between The Lines #1)

Chapter One

Thursday Trouble

The first time LaKeith Vance asked me out, I laughed so hard I inhaled cinnamon from my latte and nearly met Jesus beside the New Releases table.

The second time, I told him I had taken a temporary vow of celibacy, solitude, and common sense.

By the seventh time, I had stopped wasting perfectly good lies on him.

I simply looked him in the face and said, “Sir, leave me alone.”

LaKeith smiled like I had whispered something filthy into his ear.

“I’ll see you Thursday, Yandy.”

That man had the persistence of a bill collector and the confidence of somebody who had never been blocked before.

Every Thursday afternoon at exactly four thirty, he walked into Between the Lines Books & Brew wearing work boots, dark jeans, and a shirt stretched across shoulders that looked capable of carrying lumber, groceries, and a woman’s emotional baggage at the same time.

I noticed because I had functional eyesight.

My attention had nothing to do with interest.

At least that was what I told myself while watching him through the reflection in the front window.

“Your boyfriend is here,” Norelle Baptiste announced from behind the register.

I turned away from the window. “He is not my boyfriend.”

Norelle glanced toward the entrance as the bell above the door chimed. “He looks like somebody’s boyfriend.”

“He can go be theirs.”

At twenty-nine, Norelle was my events coordinator, part-time barista, and full-time accomplice in foolishness.

She wore burnt-orange leather pants, a cream halter top, and gold hoops large enough to receive weather alerts.

Her waist-length braids were twisted into a high ponytail, and her lip gloss shined like she had applied it with a paint roller.

Norelle leaned closer to me. “He brought flowers.”

“I don’t accept bribes.”

“They may be for the store.”

“Then the store doesn’t accept bribes.”

“The store is behind on its electric bill.”

I lowered my voice. “Stop discussing our finances in front of the mysteries.”

Norelle glanced toward the mystery section. “Those books already know.”

I straightened a stack of romances while pretending the sight of LaKeith approaching did absolutely nothing to my blood pressure.

That was a lie.

He carried a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand and a white bakery box in the other. His dark green flannel shirt was open over a fitted black T-shirt. A silver watch flashed around his wrist, and his beard looked freshly shaped.

LaKeith was thirty-six years old, six feet three inches tall, and deep brown with a clean fade and eyes that always looked like they were holding back a private joke.

He smelled like cedarwood, soap, and the kind of decisions that required a group chat afterward.

“Afternoon, ladies,” LaKeith greeted.

“Afternoon, LaKeith,” Norelle answered cheerfully.

I examined the barcode on a book as though it contained buried treasure.

LaKeith placed the roses on the counter. “These are for the shop.”

Norelle nudged my arm.

I continued studying the barcode.

LaKeith set the bakery box beside the flowers. “These are for the owner.”

I finally looked up. “What are they?”

“Caramel praline cupcakes.”

My suspicion rose immediately. “How do you know I like those?”

“You posted about them.”

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

Norelle’s eyes widened. “Oh, he studies.”

LaKeith rested one elbow on the counter. “I pay attention.”

“That sounds like surveillance,” I told him.

“It’s called being interested.”

“It’s called gathering evidence.”

His smile deepened. “Are you planning to commit a crime?”

“The way this electric bill is set up, I’m considering several.”

LaKeith laughed, and I hated how much I liked the sound.

“Have dinner with me Saturday,” he said.

“No.”

“You didn’t check your schedule.”

“My schedule said no before you walked through the door.”

“What are you doing Saturday?”

“Enjoying the peace that comes from being single.”

LaKeith nodded thoughtfully. “At a restaurant?”

“At home.”

“I can bring dinner.”

“You are committed to misunderstanding me.”

“I understand you perfectly.” His expression softened. “You’re scared.”

My smile disappeared.

Norelle suddenly found something fascinating beneath the register.

I folded my arms. “You’ve purchased seven romance novels from my store, and now you think you understand women?”

“Nine,” LaKeith corrected.

“What?”

“I’ve purchased nine.”

“I thought you said they were for your mother.”

“She finished the first six. I read the last three.”

Norelle pressed a hand over her heart. “A literate man with shoulders.”

I pointed toward the café. “Norelle, go make something.”

“There are no customers waiting.”

“Make air.”

Norelle walked away laughing.

LaKeith watched me quietly. He had a way of holding eye contact without making it feel like a contest.

Most men stared because they wanted to conquer something.

LaKeith looked as though he was trying to understand the pieces I kept hidden.

That made him more dangerous than the others.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then have dinner with me.”

“No.”

“Next Saturday?”

“No.”

“Sunday brunch?”

“I attend the First Church of Sleeping Late.”

“I’ll bring breakfast after service.”

I fought a smile. “You are irritating.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re trying not to laugh.”

“Buy your book and go home, LaKeith.”

He reached for the new urban romance displayed beside the register. “Is this one any good?”

“Strong heroine. Persistent hero. She makes him work for it.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“The hero eventually learns how to take a hint.”

LaKeith returned the book to the table. “Never mind. I don’t like unrealistic fiction.”

He chose another novel and paid for it, along with a coffee and one of the tote bags hanging near the register.

“You already own that bag,” I said.

“My cousin took it.”

“Your cousin carries a canvas tote that says, ‘Just One More Chapter’?”

“He uses it for tools.”

“That feels disrespectful.”

LaKeith gathered his purchases. “I’ll speak to him.”

At the door, he turned back toward me.

“Saturday. Seven o’clock.”

“I already said no.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you still asking?”

His gaze traveled over my face before settling briefly on my mouth.

“Because one day you’re going to say yes.”

The bell chimed as he left.

Norelle appeared beside me with icing on her finger.

“You may as well choose your wedding colors.”

“I would rather marry this cupcake.”

“You’ve been watching him through the window for twenty seconds.”

“I’m checking to make sure he left.”

“He’s standing beside his truck.”

“I’m making sure he leaves the parking lot.”

“He just waved.”

I immediately looked away.

Norelle laughed so loudly a customer near the poetry shelves shushed her.

I opened the bakery box. “Give me my cupcake before I fire you.”

“You can’t afford severance.”

Unfortunately, she was correct.

Between the Lines had been my dream since I was sixteen and hiding in the school library to avoid girls who thought my size, thrift-store clothes, and obsession with romance novels made me an easy target.

Books never asked me to shrink.

Inside a good story, women with big personalities received grand gestures. Soft women survived hard things. Plus-size girls were desired without becoming somebody’s punch line. Black women got to be delicate, complicated, silly, sexual, successful, confused, and loved.

My mother, Willetta Monroe, used to say I had been born with a library card in my hand and an opinion in my mouth.

Mama died when I was twenty-four.

Breast cancer took her in eleven brutal months, leaving me with three boxes of romance novels, a collection of handwritten recipes, and enough grief to fill every shelf in the world.

Opening the bookstore became a promise I made to both of us.

For six years, I worked two jobs, skipped vacations, and saved every extra dollar. I imagined the store in detail: deep green walls, warm pendant lights, oversized chairs, strong coffee, local authors, and a romance section so large nobody could treat it like an afterthought.

At thirty-one, I signed my lease.

At thirty-two, I became engaged to Remell Frazier.

At thirty-three, I discovered Remell had used my business information to open two credit accounts, emptied our wedding fund, and taken a work trip to Miami with a woman whose entire social media page consisted of bikinis and motivational quotes.

He returned home claiming it had all been a misunderstanding.

I helped him understand from the sidewalk while his clothes landed around him.

The broken engagement hurt.

The financial betrayal cut deeper.

Remell knew what the bookstore meant to me. He knew every dollar represented a sacrifice. He still treated my dream like an ATM with mood lighting.

After that, I redirected all my love toward Between the Lines.

Men could purchase books and exit through the front door.

That system worked beautifully until LaKeith started showing up every Thursday.

Norelle bit into her cupcake. “You know he likes you for real.”

“Men have liked me before.”

“I said he likes you. I didn’t say he wants access to your body, your business credit, or your Netflix password.”

I took a bite of my cupcake. “I don’t have Netflix.”

“That is the least believable thing you have ever said.”

“I canceled it.”

“Why?”

“Every time I logged in, Remell’s profile was still there. I changed the name to ‘Thieving Bastard,’ but it ruined the entertainment experience.”

Norelle laughed, but her eyes stayed serious. “LaKeith isn’t Remell.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I looked toward the front window.

LaKeith’s truck had disappeared from the curb.

“I know he isn’t Remell,” I said. “I also know Remell didn’t look like Remell until it was too late.”

Norelle’s expression softened. “You cannot background-check your way into emotional safety.”

“Watch me.”

“You own three tasers.”

“Four. One is shaped like lipstick.”

“I worry about you.”

“You should worry about anybody who tries me in a dark parking lot.”

Norelle carried the flowers toward the café. “I’m putting these in water.”

“They belong to the store.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t put them on my desk.”

“I would never.”

She put them on my desk.

That evening, after the customers had gone and Norelle had left for drinks with one of her rotating situationships, I sat alone in my office.

The yellow roses glowed beneath the desk lamp.

I opened the card.

There were no romantic declarations.

LaKeith had written one line.

For the place that keeps giving people somewhere to belong.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

The man was getting sneaky.

I placed the card inside my desk drawer instead of throwing it away.

That was my first mistake.