Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
CHARLIE
Dottie swoops in first. My favorite cheerful assassin.
“Well,” she says sweetly as she glances at Alice. “I think you should still do the retreat you had planned.”
Henrietta nods, pausing mid crochet, her gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. “That way you can work on your book like you wanted. Really give it the attention it deserves. If your ticket is nonrefundable, you might as well. No sense letting all that money go to waste.”
Two Old Birds chiming in back-to-back? This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a setup.
Don’t get me wrong. I know Edna and her accomplices aren’t actually a gang or our very own small-town mafia. They’re just three friends who’ve gotten meaner with age, like a fine angry wine. But at times like this, they’re close enough.
Edna leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest like the quilting bee mob boss she is, and a literal chill runs down my spine. “I mean, if Charlie has enough space for a night, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you staying for longer. Right, Charlie?”
I don’t know what they’re up to, but I know it’s a trap—I should say no. Shutting this down should be automatic. Why haven’t I said no?
Glancing at those birds for clarity doesn’t help. I still can’t figure out what they’re up to, and just looking at them makes me feel like I’m stuck in an old cartoon. The kind where an angel and a devil appear on your shoulders when it’s time to make a big decision. Except the Old Birds are all devils, it’s past their bedtime, and they polished off two cupcakes apiece before they even sat down for book club.
I’m doomed.
My gaze shifts to Old Faithful, the one reliable angel in the room who’s always ready to help me make a good decision. But Lydia is practically giddy with excitement. Nobody loves the books of Anne Livingston more than she does. Hosting her favorite author for over a week while she works on her next book is a dream come true.
I’m double doomed.
“Well, I do have the extra space…”
A gasp echoes through The BookSlinger. A few of the women in our circle think this is a wonderful idea, but most of them wouldn’t trust me with their compost bin, let alone their most beloved author. This is what I get for living out my wayward youth in a small town. Bygones are never bygone.
For the most part, those reactions around me make sense. I’m not an idiot. I know who my enemies are, even if I keep hoping they’ll turn into friends. But my next-door neighbor, Muriel, looks the most upset of all, and that one hurts.
We check in with each other almost every day. I rake her leaves in the fall, and she brought me cookies for Christmas. I thought Muriel was on my side; I thought we were good.
Before I can mourn the loss of an ally—one who makes excellent snickerdoodles—she leans toward me. Her chair is all the way on the other side of the circle, but she holds my gaze like we’re inches apart. As if this conversation is just between the two of us, her expression grave.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “We don’t know her. She could be dangerous.”
Muriel doesn’t hate me?
She’s looking out for me, and I’m so honored she thinks Alice is the threat—not me—I almost miss her warning. “Dangerous?”
Muriel nods, leaning closer. Still whispering even though Alice is sitting right beside me and can hear every word. “What if she tries to smother you in your sleep? Or poison you? Some of the deadliest poisons are odorless and tasteless. They’re practically undetectable.”
This is the sweetest, most terrifying thing she’s ever done—trying to protect me by sharing facts about poison. Though most of the women around us just find it terrifying. Muriel brought the chocolate chip cookies tonight, and several women set their half-eaten cookies down. Never to be touched again.
Muriel’s in the cozy mystery book club too, that’s the problem. A comment like that would’ve killed with the ladies in Nothing Amateur About It . That cozy mystery group is wild. I’ve never seen a sweeter bunch of women more excited to talk about murder.
But the holiday romance readers are a totally different crowd. The only danger they want is in the form of a disgraced duke. Or maybe one of those grumpy mountain men women always get snowed in with at Christmastime.
I glance at Alice, ignoring the commotion around us. She’s going to have to be the voice of reason. I wait for her to look as doubtful as she did when I offered to buy her an Old Western ticket, for her to shake her head. Instead, she looks…hopeful?
“It would be kind of nice to focus on my writing.”
She almost sounds wistful. As if life hasn’t allowed her a luxury like that in a very long time. We’re basically strangers—this is a horrible idea—but then her brown eyes find mine. Her gaze pins me in place, and maybe this is a good idea after all. Maybe it’s the best idea.
I duck my head toward hers, voice low. “Are you sure about this, Carrots?”
She hesitates, biting her bottom lip before glancing up at me. “You really wouldn’t mind?”
“You were already staying. What’s a few more days?”
I can hardly believe I’m saying it, that I’ve let myself walk into a trap the Old Birds handcrafted just for me. But Alice likes my response. And I like how much she likes it. A strange sensation sparks behind my ribs. It feels like a forest fire.
“Well,” she says slowly, “my Old Western ticket is nonrefundable…”
I pretend that makes the decision for us. That this is all about saving her a hundred bucks on bus fare. It’s a pretty nice lie, too. It feels a lot safer than the fire in my chest.
Maybe I should do this differently. Safely. The BookSlinger is full of sweet old ladies who would love to take in one of their favorite authors for an extended vacation. Women who would put her in a nice guest room of her own and probably bake her cookies. Or at least make sure she gets three square meals a day.
Though even as I think that—the moment I consider letting Alice stay with someone else—a feeling pulses in my veins I don’t recognize. Something primal I’ve never felt before. The intensity startles me, and one thought—one word—echoes under my skin: mine .
I try to ignore it, to backtrack and talk myself out of letting Alice stay with me. But that feeling, that word, echoes again. Louder this time.
Mine.
And that word is going to get me in a lot of trouble. No matter how much I like it.