Page 39 of Another Story

Before the eldest Bordeau returns, I step back around, walking toward a table, feigning an interest in a book that has some sort of monster holding a woman intimately.

“Didn’t peg you for a monster romance kinda guy,” Eloise’s sister says as she nears me, and I don’t bother to fight my chuckle. She settles on a smile that’s quick, not stopping as she heads to the register, a book in her hands.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask as I pull cash from my wallet.

“Don’t you want to know what you’re buying?” she asks, arching a brow, that small-town distrust instilled in her, no matter if she left or not.

“I trust the infinite wisdom of Eloise Bordeau,” is all I say as I hand her two twenties, grab the book in her outstretched hands, and turn to leave.

“Your change,” she calls out.

I wave my hand, nervous to address her again, should I say something as sentimental as I just did. With a piece of the woman I’ve grown infatuated with tucked under my arm, I rush out, hoping I didn’t give anything away.

Eloise would kill me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MAY I HAVE A TASTE?

ELOISE

I usedto think longing was a fictional thing—that lust couldn’t reach your heart and poke it until you were forced to acknowledge your emotions.

I like Ezra.

I do.

And he’s been in New York since the day after I rushed to his house and kissed him before running away again. Arguing with Sophie is the only thing that gets me that worked up and, in that moment, I needed a shot of whatever Ezra gives me to even me out.

He excites me, sure. But he also confirms, somehow, that I’m not this fucked up person that I sometimes believe I am.

With that kiss, I was able to recalibrate and go back home, calmer.

But in my mind, he ran as fast as he could, too. Away from my uneven emotions and my tendency to lean toward fear when things get too intense.

Fear doesn’t make me smart.

It makes me rude, I think to myself, inwardly groaning at the fact that I didn’t even say goodbye.

He sent me one email—one email—telling me he was going, and he’d be back as soon as he could.

I try to ignore the heavy dread in my belly as one of our very few regulars comes up to the register, books in her arms.

Mrs. Gooden smiles as I ring her purchases up, admiring her choices.

“Oh, goodness,” she starts, dropping her purse down in front of her with a thud. “I left my wallet in the car. I’ll be right back, Lucy.”

She turns, keys jangling in her hands, before she can see the grimace I wear at the sound of my nickname. Some people will always see me as one of the three Bordeau girls, running around in pigtails and wearing braces. They call this small-town charm but it’s so stifling.

There’s no room for evolution here.

I will never be more than what these people have already deemed me. There will never be more than Lucy Bordeau in this world; the girl with the dead parents and the dying bookstore.

The phone rings, jolting me out of my pity party.

“Bordeau Books,” I say, trying to sound a little less bitter and a little more hopeful.

“Where you always come first?” There’s a hint of laughter in his tone, and I inwardly groan at my sex positive mom and my dad’s inability to rein her in.

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