Chapter 3 Makeshift Date #2
His lip quirks up. “What can I say, Rikki? I have trust issues.”
“Join the club.”
“Is Which Witch United taking new members?”
A laugh explodes out of me. “You wouldn’t want to join Which Witch United. It’s a coven book club. We only read books about witches.”
“Only books about smart, powerful, innovative, cutthroat women? You’re right, who would want to be a part of that?”
I suck in a disjointed breath, blinking at him. Who is this man? “We make everyone come in witch slash wizard attire,” I say as coolly as I can manage in this moment of overwhelming lust for Reed the pro-witch book club air quotes author.
He raises his brows. “Like witch hats?”
“I wear a black corset, skirt, and an old-fashioned red riding cape, and we put the book we’re reading in the center of our circle in a cute little cauldron. It’s a whole over-the-top campy event. Jordyn and I host it every other Sunday. It’s my favorite.”
He stops walking to stare at me for a moment before closing his eyes and nodding twice. “That’s incredible. Seriously, do I have to audition? Is there a link somewhere?”
A blush burns up my neck as we restart forward, curling around the back-left corner of the hall. “I’ll mail you a QR code.”
“I look forward to it.” He gives my elbow a squeeze via the crook of his own, and it sends a gush of heat up my arm.
This guy is too good to be true.
What’s going to happen when I google him? He’s probably a murderer. Or a robber. Or a con artist. Or like a fish that got changed into a human for a day but will revert back at midnight.
The assortment of easels with fan art from famous Disney scenes are scattered along this wall leading back up toward the dance floor. We move even slower now, weaving among the frames.
“So,” Reed continues, “how did you go from Books Today to Love Today? And how are you also a therapist?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Your turn to share your life, mystery boy. How’d you get into podcast producing?”
I watch the decision to concede trickle through his features—his gaze softens and his lips follow, settling into a small close-mouthed grin.
“Well, I listened to a bunch of baseball podcasts back in high school and loved the community feel of it. Then, freshman year of college, my brother and I started our own podcast, Books & Baseball.”
Amusement dances through me. “Not a classic combo.”
He chuckles. “Yep. It was super niche, but we launched it back in like 2010.”
“And how did it turn into a production company?”
“Well, we put out a tight, thoughtful show. My brother majored in audio engineering, so we had great sound quality. We started going to podcast conferences on our college breaks, met a lot of people in that world, and started getting requests to edit other shows, help friends start their own podcasts . . . We eventually decided it’d probably be a good idea to turn it into an official business.
So we opened our LLC. It snowballed from there.
Now we have an indie podcasting company with five other editors on board and a social team. We produce twenty-five podcasts.”
“Dang, congratulations, that’s a huge accomplishment.” I reach over and lightly squeeze his forearm. It’s muscly. Ropy. I tamp an urge to lift it up and inspect it.
“Can you really call the company that makes the Attached at the Hip official podcast indie? I feel like you’ve gone mainstream.”
He tilts his head left and right, weighing his response. “We were hipster underdogs for so long. We only got that gig because I know the Attached at the Hip host, and she brought us in.”
“You know the host?”
“We were in an improv group together back in the day.”
I blink at him, aghast. “You did improv?”
He smiles. “Drama kid, remember?”
“Damn, slipped my mind between author and producer. You do a lot of different things.” I glance at him sidelong.
“And you also run an Etsy shop?” Reed continues.
“Did you take notes when Jordyn and Micah were spewing my life story?”
A goofy smile splits his face as he taps his head with his index finger. “Always taking notes up here.”
We stop for a moment to appreciate a framed stained-glass-style piece of Cinderella and her fairy godmother as we pass its easel.
“So, what do you make?” Reed asks, peering at me curiously.
“Nothing like this.” I gesture to the art around the room, because I can tell his mind is wandering in that direction. “I’m not an artist. I make silly personalized greeting cards.”
“People still use those?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Yes!” I skip forward a step, dragging him along as my enthusiasm gets the better of me.
“Mostly couples place orders for birthdays or anniversaries. I do these silly doodles of things like inside jokes or scenes from a moment in their lives, and I’ll write jokes or funny poems for them if they request it.
They give me some information about what they want, and I make it into a greeting card. ”
Reed presses his lips together as we mosey our way through the shadows on the outskirts of the dance floor.
“I know it’s kinda random,” I continue quickly. “But doodling’s my anti-anxiety, and I love knowing I helped someone tell another person they love them.”
He turns to meet my eyes. “That’s ridiculously sweet. You . . .”
He trails off, staring at me. “You’re really fucking cool.” The hot man thinks my greeting card doodles make me cool?
A tingling sensation dusts over my skin, stalling my ability to respond.
Giddiness. I’m giddy. Shit. I reach into the mental void for my blanket of cynicism.
Cynics are refined, sexy. They don’t internally explode into giddy pieces when people they’re attracted to pay them a compliment.
They feed on the praise, absorbing it into their life force like a power-up in a video game.
Keep calm and sexy on. “You smell really fucking good,” I offer in return.
He laughs like I’m joking. But he smells like a freshly sanded cedar bookshelf sitting under the sun at the beach.
We’re almost back around to where we started this walk.
I’m not ready for this semiprivate microcosm of a date to end.
Along the final wall we’re tracing is a door. I stop outside it, bringing Reed to a halt beside me. We’re directly behind the DJ’s setup, on a thick strip of deep-blue carpet that runs parallel to the dance floor. I drop a hand to the knob and twist, glancing up at him in question. “Shall we?”
“Be my guest.”