Page 38 of Driven Daddy

I knew my best friend would toss around his Scottish brogue and get everyone tittering after him. He was a good friend, and he definitely did not mind the attention.

I took off around back toward the parking lot. A group of people were coming my way, luckily too busy talking to one another or on their phones so I was able to duck around the corner to the alley.

The hot day also meant a hot dumpster.

I hurried past that to the back doors to all the shops. The bakery had a bright ass pink door which let me know that two doors down was Every Line A Story.

Thankfully, the door was propped open. I hadn’t really thought the back door access thing through. The damn door was probably typically locked. Thank God for employees needing a smoke break.

Though it didn’t look like any smoking was being done here. The glom of people made me twitchy for one, but no time for that. Nor did I want to smell like a cigarette with so many people around me.

I slid inside and the door slammed shut behind me.

I leaned on the door and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Obviously, this was where Colette kept her overflow stock. Cases of books were stacked by the door, readying for the masses.

I took a minute to breathe, stuffing down the sudden nerves I hadn’t expected. When I did the conventions, I had time to prepare for the crowds.

They didn’t bother me overmuch—when I was prepared.

Today, not so much.

I shook out my stiff fingers and blew out a breath. This would be a piece of cake.

I crossed to the door and tried the lever handle—locked.

“Fuck.”

I patted my pocket for my phone and pulled it out.

No bars.

Fucking fabulous.

I tried it again and noted the blinking keypad beside the door. Not sure how I got in the back door if Colette was such a stickler, but now I was definitely in trouble.

At least until someone let me in.

Surely someone needed to come looking for books for the signing at the very least.

I sat down on the case of books, my butt dipping low on the half-filled box. I stood back up and dug into the box.

Surprised when it wasn’t my book—or Ryan’s.

“Romance?” I muttered.

I checked the side of the boxes—filled with copies ofDate with Disaster.

What the hell was that?

The cover was pretty obviously romance or women’s fiction, which was definitely not my genre, but the names vaguely tickled my brain.

Before I could read the back the door opened.

Then someone slid inside and slammed the door again with her back to the door and her hand on her chest.

The familiar blond hair of my mystery lady from a few days ago paralyzed my mouth.

What was she doing here?

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