Page 7 of A Novel Love Story

“Yeah, it’s in the trunk.”

He held the umbrella over me as I went around and opened the hatchback. When I’d parked the car, most everything had slid up toward the back seat, so I had to climb in to drag my duffel bag back out. As I did, he looked into a cardboard box wedged between my spare tire and a jumper kit, and inspected one of the books. The second Quixotic Falls novel. It was tattered, the cover bent and waterlogged, the pages crumpled, spine broken.

All of the books were signed by Rachel Flowers, personalized in elegant, loopy handwriting—

To Elsy

I’d met her once—Rachel Flowers—a year before she died. She’d been my age. It was a tragic accident, the news outlets had said, but I barely remembered the year at all. I didn’twantto remember most of it, actually.

“Short for Eleanor?” he asked, guessing the name. “Elvira?”

“Do I look like an Elvira?”

He replied, “I’ll know in the daylight.”

I snorted. He was a little funny, I had to admit, in an awkward way. This man was made with tweed and argyle, and sewn together with an Oxford comma. I debated whether to lie and say the book was a friend’s—he didn’t seem like the type to appreciate the finer qualities of romance—but ended up simply telling the truth. I wasn’t very good at lying, anyway. “Eileen.”

He returned the book to where he’d found it in the box. “You have the entire series.”

“I like to read.” I pulled my duffel bag over my shoulder. “Okay, let’s go. How far’s this loft of yours?”

“Right across the street,” he replied, nudging his head in the direction he had stalked off to after I’d almost pancaked him with my car. We waded across the street in the inches of rain to a charming old brick building. The windows were all fogged up from the humidity, the front door a dumpy grayish color in the dark.

He unlocked it and pushed it open.

A bell chimed above our heads.

“This way,” he said, and headed down the aisle on the far left. I stood in the doorway for a moment, inspecting the rows and rows of shelves—no, bookcases.

It was abookstore.

Somewhere between the stacks, I heard him clear his throat impatiently, and I pulled my duffel up higher over my shoulder and followed after him. Tall, shadowy bookcases loomed overhead as he led me through them, like a guide through a minotaur’s maze. The store wasn’t big, but it was intricate and tightly packed. He had to angle himself sideways a little bit so his shoulders didn’t brush the spines of the books on the shelves. It should’ve felt suffocating and small, but the store just felt cozy—like being trapped under a warm blanket.

In the back left corner of the store, beside a cozy reading area with a stone hearth and a weathered fainting couch, there was a spiral staircase to the second floor. I followed him up, and the loft was off to the left of the cookbooks, behind a narrow blue door. He took his keys out of his pocket and unlocked it.

“It may smell a bit musty,” he began, opening the door for me, “but it’s secluded, and you have your own bathroom and shower. The sheets are fresh, too.”

I stepped into the room. It was surprisingly quaint, with a double bed on a brass bed frame, a dresser, and a window seat that looked out toward the street. On the far side of the room was a doorway that led to a bathroom with a claw-footed tub and a toilet.

“Oh, wow,” I murmured, because I’d expected a cot squeezed into the corner of a dusty old attic. He went over to open a window and air out the room. “It’s perfect. How much do I owe you?”

His eyebrows jerked up a fraction as he glanced over his shoulder to me. “Nothing.”

“No way, therehasto be a catch.”

“No catch—shit.” He gave the window another yank, to no avail. I came over to help him, grabbing the bottom lip of the window, and with another pull, we finally managed to push it up. The hush of rain swept in,along with the smell of wet grass and clean sky. He rubbed his hands on his trousers, shaking his head. “Peas don’t pay carrots, don’t worry about it.”

“Why am I the pea?”

“Because I hate peas.”

“Oh. Well then.” I rolled my eyes and turned to sit on the window seat. He was close enough that I caught a note of his cologne—cedar and black tea and, faintly, the subtle scent of a well-loved paperback. Familiar and yearning. It was mystifying. “Good thing I hate carrots—sorry,” I added as my shoulder accidentally brushed his.

He didn’t seem to notice at all as he looked up into the eaves. “Carrots are delicious.”

I scrunched my nose. “They’re gross.”

“So are peas.”

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