Page 13 of The Enemy Plot

“I’m sorry. Mine died three months ago. She got sick really fast, and the doctors couldn’t do anything.”

I hold my hand out, and she takes it. “I’m sorry, Lola. I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.”

She swallows hard, then forces a nod. “Thank you.”

Just then, Mr. Darcy comes trotting toward us, and she squats down to pet him. My heart breaks for Lola. I wish I knew exactly what to tell her to ease her pain, but the truth is, there is nothing to say. Here I am fourteen years later, and I still haven’t figured out how to live without my mom. She’s in every romcom I read, every Hallmark movie I watch, and every scrapbook I put together. All the things my mom and I used to do together. All the things that remind me of her.

I smile to myself as my eyes rove the bookstore. Everything I do—everything I am—is because of my mom, and I know she’d be proud of me. She was the best person I ever knew, and I strive to be worthy of calling myself her daughter every single day. I always try to find the best in any situation and in people, infuse as much positive energy as I can into my life, and remind myself how lucky I am to be alive and in good health.

Maybe that’s the key. Allowing her to be part of my life, to influence it, even if she’s not physically here anymore. That way, it’s like she never really left. But then, why does it still hurt so much sometimes?

“Lola,” Emma says, coming over. “Aren’t you tired of all these cheerful romcoms? Can I tempt you to join the dark side?” A grin flashes on her face, Cheshire-Cat style.

That draws a laugh out of Lola and pulls me out of my reverie. Lola’s laugh is beautiful. Suddenly, I wonder what Deacon’s laugh sounds like. But just as quickly as the thought comes, it dissipates. What am I thinking? He probably doesn’t even have one.

“Mm, I’m good,” Lola says, still chuckling.

“Really? Because I have some gripping dark romances that would change your life.”

“Emz!” I scold. “She’s a teenager.” The dark romances we sell might be closed door, but they’re not always PG-13.

Emma’s blue eyes widen slightly. “Right. Romantic suspense, then? I know one that is pretty tame.”

Lola grimaces. “I don’t know.”

“Leave the poor girl alone,” I tell Emma, wrapping a protective arm around Lola’s shoulders. “She’s a romcom and YA girl.” And I don’t blame her. When you’ve been through a lot, you tend to gravitate toward stories that make you smile and feel safe. Although, Emma’s past is worse than mine, and she still finds comfort in darker reads. I guess everyone deals with their wounds in their own ways. That’s the beauty of reading—you can find healing in the pages of any book.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll let you two revel in all thatfluff.”

Lola and I chuckle. Turning to Lola, I ask, “So, you’re coming on Wednesday for the book club, right?”

“Yes, absolutely. Deacon said it’s okay, and I’m not letting him backtrack on that.”

“Fantastic. Well, I guess I’ll see you Wednesday,” I say with a grin. “Although you’re welcome to swing by anytime. And if you ever need help with girl stuff or homework, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you.” She waves and turns to leave before spinning back to face me. “Actually,” she says, twisting her mouth to the side. “Would you mind helping me with myFrench essay? It’s already written and everything, but I really need to bump up my grade if I want to pass. Maybe you could take just a quick look?”

I offer a reassuring smile. “Of course. I’d be happy to help. When is it due?”

She winces. “Tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear. Okay. Well, I’m going to a hockey game tonight.” I glance at my watch. “Let me see if Emma can handle the store on her own until closing.”

As I expected, Emma doesn’t mind a bit, and I follow Lola back to her apartment. I’ve taken this route many times before, but never in such a leisurely way. Usually, my blood is boiling, my heart rate is through the roof, and I’m mulling over what nasty words I’m going to throw at Deacon. Though my current walk isn’t that different, at least when it comes to my racing pulse.

I step into the now-familiar corridor, and once again, I’m surprised by how sparsely furnished this place is. The apartment itself looks similar to our interior since it used to be a single building—hence the thin walls—but at the same time, it couldn’t be more different. While ours is decked out with cozy carpets, drapes on the windows, and plenty of comfortable furniture, this apartment is devoid of any decorations, and furniture-wise, there’s only the minimum. A gray couch is facing a TV stand, and a coffeetable rests in the middle with a remote control. No paintings or decorative elements hang on any of the walls. The open kitchen is empty, and there’s a round table with four chairs. Not exactly a welcoming home.

“Let me grab my backpack,” Lola says, hurrying to what I assume is her bedroom.

“Lola?” Deacon’s gruff voice calls from the room at the end of the corridor. The door opens, and he sticks his head out. “Alice?” he asks, unable to hide the surprise in his tone.

The way he says my name—my real name, not that annoying nickname—is sending chills down my spine. Why does he have to possess that stupid, sexy voice? Couldn’t he have a squeaky, high-pitched one with nasal undertones?

“What did I do this time?” he grumbles, ambling closer with a frustrated sigh. “Was I painting too loudly?” His black shirt is torn and stained with white paint.

Crossing my arms, I roll my eyes. “Relax. I’m just here to help your niece with her homework.”

He frowns, seemingly taken aback. “Really? Why?”

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