Page 8 of The Bookbinder's Guide to Love

“Bynormal, do you mean not a douchebag asking about your sex life?”

“Yeah, that. Sort of sets an odd tone,” she said. She was starting to feel almost like there was more to Wesley Sitwell than she’d originally thought.

Given she’d thought very little of him, that wasn’t really saying much.

“Definitely. Like learning your grandpa has a twenty-six-year-old girl ‘friend,’” he said.

She shrugged. “Probably better than meeting at the funeral. Hope you learned not to jump to conclusions.”

“Some habits die hard.”

“Like trying to intimidate people with formal letters?”

“No, that’s not a habit. Iwashoping the letter would discourage you from keeping the books,” he said.

“I’m not giving them up,” she said, refusing to give ground on this.

It was as if Ford had given her controlling shares in his company or something. They were acting like him leaving her anything was unreasonable.

“I can see that. Can we get some coffee? I’d like to know more about why Grandpa left you those books.”

That was the first reasonable thing he’d said since she’d met him. But she wasn’t ready to be reasonable. “I can’t while my shop is open.”

“I heard you say you were out of journals,” he pointed out.

“I still sell books and I have to prepare the journals for tomorrow,” she said, which was the truth. She needed to have at least fifty for the next day, but that wasn’t realistic. She’d probably end up with half a dozen or so.

The teenagers finally decided on what they wanted, the latest in a graphic novel series that had been made into a hit show on one of the streaming services. Wes stepped to one side as she checked them out, putting their books into a paper bag stamped with the WiCKed Sisters logo.

“Is there anything else?” she asked. Because she would really like him to leave. She needed time to deal with Ford’s death, she still had journals to prep and she wanted to sit on her chair in the back room. Alone. “I have to get back to work.”

“What about a drink after work? Just to talk and figure out where we can go from here.”

A drink. One drink to learn more about Ford’s grandson.

There was something about him.

It’s just one drink.

Funny, but that thought almost sounded like Ford’s voice in her head. It was the least she could do for her old friend.

“Sure.”

“Do you ever answer any other way?”

“Sure,” she said, even though it really didn’t make sense.

She saw a smile tease the corner of his lips.

“I’ll meet you here at six,” he said, turning to the door and then stopping at the books that she’d caught him looking at earlier. He ran his finger over the spine of the one closest to him. A leather-bound edition of Thomas Hardy’sFar from the Madding Crowd. “This book is worth more than you have it marked.”

Then he buttoned up his wool coat and walked out the door. She didn’t look away until he’d walked past the stone statue in the middle of the park and out of her view.

“Who was that?” Liberty asked, coming through the book-lined passageway that connected her part of the shop to Sera’s.

“Wesley Sitwell.”

“The toad?”

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