Page 16 of The Roommate Lie

Charlie waves to her on our way in, calling her Mrs. LePage and asking about her day. As she grins back from behind the register, I notice her name tag says Loretta. And ifLoretta LePageisn’t the perfect name for a woman who runs an old-west-style bookstore, I don’t know what is.

Her shop has everything, from self-help to thrillers to epic fantasy. There’s even the cutest children’s area I’ve ever seen, and we’re halfway to the back of the room before I realize how ironic this is. How I’ve managed to wind up in the exact wrong place, today of all days.

I’m in a bookstore.

On my anniversary.

Jason and I met in one of these exactly a year ago today. When we bumped into each other and he made a grumpy-cute remark about all the romances I was buying before asking meout for coffee. And now I’m here—right after he broke up with me.

Bookstores used to be my special happy place, but now it feels like they were our happy place.Did my ex ruin bookstores for me?

It isn’t just him. I’ve been an indie author for almost four years, but I haven’t released a new book in thirteen months, breaking every promise I made to my readers along the way. Walking through The BookSlinger is like returning to the scene of multiple crimes—crimes I’m trying very hard to forget.

I take a deep breath to steady myself, and Charlie nudges my shoulder. “Are you okay over there, Carrots?”

I don’t know why that works, how that one little nickname relaxes me instantly. Nodding, I give him a grateful smile.

“Romance book club, huh?” I nudge him back to lighten the mood. “You didn’t seem like the type.”

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Romance readers bring better snacks. The dystopian club can’t even remember to buy a bag of pretzels.”

He sets the cupcakes down on a refreshment table near the back wall. Opening one of the boxes, he snags each of us a cupcake of our own. Placing mine on a small paper napkin, he hands it over as we head to our final destination: a small circle of comfortable chairs tucked in a cozy reading nook.

We’re the only ones here so far, but it doesn’t take long for two older women to show up. After watching how warmly Mrs. LePage greeted Charlie, I’m surprised how icy these new women are. They don’t even glance over when he says hello.

They aren’t the only ones. Once more people show up, I’m amazed how split the group seems. The women in his book club either adore Charlie or avoid him like the plague, and unfortunately, that last group is larger than the other.

I can’t figure out why it’s happening. Charlie seems nice enough—he’s gone out of his way to help me multiple times.Why do so many people dislike him?

For the most part, he seems to take it in stride. Though when I try to catch his eye to make sure he’s okay, Charlie doesn’t look over. His mood has dimmed, and it doesn’t lift again until a blonde our age shows up, beaming at him like he hung the moon.

“You picked up the cupcakes? You’re alifesaver. Sorry I was running late.”

After grabbing a cupcake for herself at the refreshment table, she comes back to sit on the other side of me before introducing herself as Lydia. “Are you the girl who’s staying with us tonight?”

She says that like it’s not an inconvenience, as if she’s looking forward to it. My worries about being a burden melt away. Lydia chats with me a little more, and I like her instantly. She has one of those warm, sunny faces that makes her mood feel contagious. And she’s being so nice to me.

After the day I’ve had, I’m desperate to return the favor. To say something kind or interesting that will make us fast friends—then I notice the book in her lap. Their Christmas romance pick for the month of May:The Duke’s Winter Wish.

Everyone’s got a copy except Charlie—he has the ebook pulled up on his phone—but I don’t have to check the paperbacks around me to know who wrote it. An author can spot their own cover a mile away, and my cheeks flame. My face might actually be on fire.

At least there’s no author photo on the back of the book, no easy way to identify me. What’s the point of being an author with a secret pen name if you make it easy to figure out who you are? Except I haven’t been secretive enough…

Social media strikes again.

I’m in full panic mode, wondering how I’m going to survive these sweet old ladies tearing apart my book, when everything gets worse. When a woman a few chairs away tilts her head, eyeing me like she knows me from somewhere.

Instagram.

That’s the only place she could possibly know me from, the only corner of the internet where I’ve ever shown my face.

Before I can run or don a clever disguise, a different woman—the one running things—glances around the circle of chairs. “All right, Pondies. Let’s get started.”

But that’s as far as we get. The Staring Menace a few chairs away gasps in recognition, and her voice rings out across the bookstore. Echoing off all that old-west charm like a gunshot at the O.K. Corral.

“It’s Anne Livingston.”

Chapter Nine

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