Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
CHARLIE
I’m avoiding Alice Kilpatrick. And it’s not going well.
Roommates are pretty hard to stay away from in general. Cute roommates with freckles and warm brown eyes are impossible. They’re basically magnets.
I wake up before dawn and hurry downstairs, hoping to get out of here before she starts her day. But it’s too late. It’s barely six o’clock, yet everyone is already in the kitchen—including my new favorite magnet.
My gaze pulls toward her instantly. Alice gives me a shy smile as she grabs a few of the pancakes Lydia made. She looks apologetic, as if she feels bad about staying here. As if Alice is convinced I don’t want her around.
I wish.
In return, I give her a tight smile. I don’t trust myself to do anything else. Getting caught in those warm brown eyes again and going all primal like I did at The BookSlinger isn’t an option.
Not today, ginger temptress.
I don’t even trust myself to say hello. I’m too afraid I’ll slip and call her Carrots, and I like using that nickname way too much. That nickname is Not Allowed.
Lydia picks up on my weirdness right away, jumping to all the right conclusions. That woman sees the world through romance-colored glasses, even when I wish she wouldn’t. Her other bad habit is comparing real life to tropes, and I can feel a storm brewing.
Her dog, Cookie, is by her feet in the kitchen, chewing on his beloved stuffed bumble bee, and she pauses her pancake making to scratch behind his ears. Then she gives me a knowing smile before glancing away. In less than two seconds, my phone buzzes with a text.
Lydia: Uh-oh. He falls first?
She follows that with an emoji, the one with the face surrounded by hearts, and I want to throw my phone across the room. But I also want to unpack all Alice’s things and burn her bus ticket home—though only if she wants me to.
My gut instinct, my very first thought, is to text back “he falls first, she falls harder.” That’s how long I’ve been in the romance book club—I can speak in tropes. But I don’t type that. It’s wishful thinking, the very definition of an impossible dream.
I’ve seen Alice’s ex, and Jason isn’t an outlier. When you pair him with the heroes in her books, the ones I’ve read for book club anyway, that woman has a type. Alice likes rich grumps, and I can’t compete. As much as I have a weakness for her, she doesn’t have a weakness for guys like me.
Instead of responding to Lydia’s text, I give her a look. She’s been trying to play matchmaker since she moved in, and I pretend this is another failed attempt, another Lydia-setup gone wrong. Not that she cares. She just wags her eyebrows at me from the stove. Undeterred.
Her twin brother, Tyler, has been oblivious at the dining table until now. He’s my old college roommate and my best friend, but his eyes narrow when he sees the look I’m giving his sister and the one she’s giving me. Although, he’s mostly kidding.
Glancing at me, he says the one thing I wish he wouldn’t. Making the same joke he always does. “Hold up, Romeo. We’ve got one rule.”
Normally, I don’t mind this joke, but it feels different with Alice here. Tyler doesn’t notice. His focus is on me, not her, and he grins like the teasing jerk he is, my favorite jerk.
“What’s our rule, Roscoe?”
I just want to get this over with. So I roll my eyes like I always do. “Sisters are off-limits.”
He nods, satisfied, and goes back to his breakfast. But something stings in my chest that usually doesn’t.
Lydia and I are only friends. We feel more like siblings than anything, and we’re on the same page. But Tyler’s joke makes me sound like a creep. As if I’d pounce in a second if he wasn’t keeping an eye on me.
And it also makes it sound like I’m not good enough for his sister. Like I’m the one person he wouldn’t trust.
Lydia can see it too, everything I’m feeling, this new take on our old joke. She changes the subject, reaching for a paper on the kitchen counter and waving it like a prize. “Guess who got a mention in our favorite publication? Good news travels fast.”
The Victorian .
She hands that paper to Alice, and her brown eyes widen with delight as she glances at me. “This town has a scandal sheet?”
I don’t want to find her excitement adorable, but I’m only human. A few of Alice’s Regency romances contain a scandal sheet plot line, and her eyes sparkle like her dreams are coming true.
“It’s not a town scandal sheet,” I tell her. “It’s a Lilac Hedgerow scandal sheet.”
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that scandal sheet was one of the reasons I wanted to live in this neighborhood. Only people in the hedgerow get a copy. Waking up to find The Victorian’s publication waiting on my fence never gets old. Dispatch From the Hedgerow isn’t a bug, it’s a feature, and there’s no life like hedge life.
Alice hands me today’s edition. I scan for the section that’s about her and read it out loud.
“Let’s wish a warm hedgerow welcome to our newest resident, the writer Anne Livingston. Ms. Livingston has chosen our little corner of Ponderosa Falls to call home while she finishes her next book. If she also manages to cause a stir while she’s in town? Even better. Some Pondies could use a little shaking up—we’ll be watching.”
I glance at Alice. She still looks thrilled, as if our local gossip columnist keeping tabs on her is an honor. I almost stop reading, but The Victorian’s signature closer is next, and Lydia recites it with me.
“Your humble and obedient eavesdropper, The Victorian.”
Alice sighs dreamily. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a small white business card that I recognize. A similar card was tucked between my fence slats right after I moved in.
“I found this in the fence last night. I heard a noise and came outside, but the scandal sheet wasn’t there yet.”
Lydia sighs her own dreamy sigh, her pancake spatula clutched to her chest. “I bet you scared them off. I bet you were two seconds away from unmasking The Victorian, and they had to come back later to deliver the paper.”
Her delight over that scenario lasts about five seconds. A slow realization washes over Lydia, and her eyes meet mine, her expression the most wounded I’ve ever seen. “You got a welcome card; Alice got a welcome card. Why didn’t I get one?”
Tyler looks up. He was checking the private forum for his webcomic, the one he publishes anonymously, while he ate breakfast. But he still managed to hear everything we said.
“You aren’t a published author, and you don’t own this house. The Victorian probably just thought you were Charlie’s newest girlfriend.”
My newest girlfriend?
For the second time since dawn, I’d like to murder my best friend. I’ve never brought any girls home, and I haven’t dated in almost a year. I know Tyler doesn’t mean anything by it, but then I glance at Alice. That girl’s hanging on every word, and I’d like to murder him twice.
Before I can commit multiple felonies, there’s a knock on the door, and Tyler lets my mom in. Because it’s Tuesday morning, and he knows the drill.
When she makes it past the mudroom, her gaze goes straight to Alice and Lydia. “Sweetie, why have the girls in your house multiplied?”
My mom looks a little dazed by our newest addition, but I don’t actually think it’s the girls’ fault. When I check again, she mostly seems exhausted, and I’m not sure how long she’s been back in town. How long it takes to pick up a litter of abandoned raccoon kits in Steamboat Springs.
Should I try to woo Alice with baby raccoons?
That thought pops into my head out of nowhere, and I shake it off fast. Determined to stay focused—and stay away from Alice.
“They’re like gremlins,” I tell my mom, nodding to the girls in my kitchen. “Lydia wandered through a sprinkler after midnight, and this was what happened.”
“Well, at least she spawned a redhead. A ginger adds variety.”
That response is peak Mama Roscoe (even if she’s not technically a Roscoe anymore). Her comment makes me smile, but it also makes it sound like I collect girls for sport. Like they’re trading cards or Pokemon. Or maybe I’m just feeling touchy after my morning with Tyler.
Either way, I change the subject, eager to get out of here. “You ready for breakfast?” I ask my mom, and she tosses me her car keys so I can drive. I hold out my skateboard like we’re going to swap, and she laughs, play-punching my arm.
“All right, wise guy. Get the lead out and get in the car. Breakfast isn’t going to eat itself.”
For the most part, her good mood isn’t a facade. Even tired, she’s in the same great spirits she’s been in since she married Wild Bill Tipton last year. Living with him and helping out at his wildlife center on the edge of town has done my kindergarten-teacher mama a world of good.
Though when I look again, there’s a little something extra in that look she’s giving me. Something serious. Her gaze flicks to Alice on our way out, and I get the message loud and clear.
We need to talk.