Page 35 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

‘Avery’s Sex Addict Shame!’

I wince.

I know I should just keep on walking, but I can’t help reaching for the nearest one and quickly flipping through to read the story. Sure enough, it’s the photos of Duke and me in the field, with him on his knees sucking venom from my thigh… but they’ve pixelated out a whole area where his head is bent by my leg.

I stifle a groan. Now it looks even more like he’s doing something scandalous!

Just perfect. Now all of America thinks I’m some exhibitionist nympho.

I start to put the magazine back, then pause. I sneak a quick look around: the store is quiet, just a couple of people browsing new fiction, and a mom trying to get her kid interested in the picture books – and not the stuffed animals lined up on the counter.

All clear.

Quickly, I grab every trashy gossip magazine off the rack, piling my arms high. I scurry through to the back of the store, searching for somewhere to hide them. Somewhere nobody will ever look. Somewhere dim and dusty and forgotten?—

The foreign poetry section!

I bend down and stash the magazines at the bottom of the shelf, pushing them all the way in the back?—

“Can I help you?”

One of the booksellers appears behind me. I lurch up so fast, I bang my head on the top of the shelf. “Owww!”

The girl winces. She looks about twenty, intimidatingly cool with piercings and intricate tattoos. “Sorry. Are you OK?”

“Uh huh,” I manage to blurt, rubbing the back of my skull. “I’m fine! Just… browsing the poetry.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the magazines start to slide off the shelf.

Whoops! I quickly angle my body away. “Do you have a history section?” I ask quickly, hoping to get away before…

The entire pile of magazines spill out, whooshing to the floor in a sea of bitchy headlines and weight-loss tips.

Busted.

We both pause, looking down at the mess.

“Umm…” I try to think of an innocent explanation, but of course, there is none. I cringe. Any minute now, she’s going to recognize me, and kick up a fuss, and then this whole embarrassing stunt is going to wind up on the cover of next week’s magazines.

As if a few missing tabloids was ever going to make a difference, when anyone with a cell signal and a social media account can read all the dirty details of my dumpster-fire reputation.

But before I can blurt an apology, and maybe offer up my firstborn to keep it quiet, the girl bends down – and then shoves them all back into the dark recesses of the foreign poetry dungeon.

“There,” she says, deadpan. “I hate a mess. Now, did you need help with anything?”

“Umm… history section?” I manage in surprise – and relief.

“This way. Watch for the step.”

She leads me into a cozy back room, with shelves stretching all the way to the ceilings. “So, the system makes sense, I promise,” she tells me. “Wars are over there, Korea through the Middle East. Ships, planes, automobiles… boring old guys… awesome old women…”

I smile, and tell her what I’m looking for.

“Ooh, I just unpacked some good ones,” she brightens, and starts fetching thick volumes down. “Is this research or…?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say vaguely.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” She pauses. “But I wanted to say, I think it’s really messed up. All the shit they’re saying about you. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum,” she adds, in what sounds like Latin.

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