Page 23 of Cool for the Summer

“Oh, him. He’s my…roommate,” I say awkwardly.

Beth gives me a knowing smile. “It’s all right, dear. Rosedale is a very open-minded place.”

I’m about to correct her, but figure there’s no point and just smile at the sentiment. I guess it’s better she accepts Donovan and I are together than being appalled at the possibility. People do like to make assumptions, but since this one is rather nice, I let it go. “Thanks. I’ll be back soon,” I promise.

Still shaking my head over that exchange, I head in the direction of the bookstore, but my attention is grabbed by a couple of guys attempting to move a large couch through a small doorway. I step out of their way, surveying the building. They seem to be moving someone out of an upper floor apartment, which is over an empty storefront. I glance through the ground floor window. The inside is dusty, but looks like it used to be a shop at one time, with built-in shelving on the walls and unfinished sections of the floor where it looks like a counter used to be. I step back and survey the building. It’s attractive, warm red brick on top, big plate-glass windows at street level. This block seems to be thriving otherwise—I wonder what happened to this store. It seems to be the perfect place for a little boutique or—not a coffee shop, because Hot Brew’s got that covered—some kind of eatery.

I can’t stop thinking about the empty space as I walk to the bookshop. Cheerful bells sound as I let myself in, and I allow myself to be distracted by the comforting smell of new books.

“Hi there,” a tall woman with short wavy brunette hair greets me. “Oh, I know you. Jack’s cousin, right?”

I’m still not used to just how small a town Rosedale is. Everyone seems to know me and I’ve only been here a week. I smile at her, trying to place her. “Beck Avery,” I confirm.

“Melissa Sanchez,” she says. “Jack told us you were going to be house-sitting. And I see you were at Hot Brew. Meadow’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh! Cool.” I lift my almost empty takeout cup. “Bookstore and coffee shop? Power couple.”

She laughs. “Can I help you find something?”

“Cookbooks?”

“Over here.” She shows me the section and leaves me to browse. I find two cookie-centric books that have promising molasses cookie recipes and take them both to the counter. I’m about to pay when I have a thought. “Do you have any books about writing?”

“A few.” She takes me to the nonfiction section and I scan the titles. Nothing specific about playwriting. Which is probably for the best. Donovan hasn’t exactly invited my input on the subject. And I don’t want to make him uncomfortable with an unwelcome present.

“Didn’t see what you wanted?” she asks when I return empty-handed.

“It’s okay. The cookbooks are perfect.” I throw in a couple of cute pencils I spot at the register and then notice a plain black notebook in a rack. “Wait, this too,” I say, adding it to my small pile. I’ve seen Donovan write in a similar book. Maybe he needs another one. And if I chicken out of giving it to him, I can use it myself. I usually take recipe notes on my phone, but I can try something new.

While she scans my items, I ask, “Do you know what’s up with that empty storefront down the block?”

Melissa thinks for a moment, then her brow clears. “Oh, that was a sandwich shop, but the owner decided to move to Florida. It’s been empty for a couple of years now. I keep hearing rumors of things going in, but nothing so far.”

“Hmmm.” I wonder what the rent would be on a place like that. Not that I know anything about retail. Or even know what kind of store I’d want to run. But the possibility nags at me, just like the possibility of that cute blue house.

“Are you a baker?” Melissa asks as I pay and add my purchases to the bag from Second Time Around.

The question flummoxes me for a second. “Strictly amateur,” I say. “Cookies, mostly.”

“Well, if you ever need a taste tester, you know where to find me,” Melissa says.

I think about the five dozen cookies at home and grin. “Be careful what you wish for.”

TEN

DONOVAN

When I amble downstairsaround noon for lunch, Cleo looks up from her bed, but when she sees it’s only me, she settles down again. I’ve begun to suspect that she likes Beck more than me, which, fair. I think I like Beck more than me, too.

He’s been a constant presence this week, but not in a bad way. How can I complain about someone who cooks seemingly effortlessly delicious meals and keeps trying to replicate my aunt’s cookie recipe for fun?

By the third night and third attempt, I had my fill of molasses cookies for about a year, but I haven’t had the heart to tell Beck. Each batch has been good, but either not quite like my aunt’s or not up to his standards in some way. So he keeps trying, and I keep feeling that if I never have another molasses cookie again, I’ll be good.

I glance in the fridge, checking that the leftover potato salad from last night is still there. I pull it out and grab sandwich fixings, then it occurs to me there’s no music coming through the kitchen speakers. I don’t hear anything from Beck’s room, and if he’d gone out to the pool, he’d probably have taken Cleo with him.

So where is he?

It’s not like he has to check in with me. Neither of us have ventured far from the house this week. It’s been surprisingly relaxing to stay put, and it occurs to me that I haven’t had a real vacation since that jaunt to Florida a couple of years ago.

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