We wave goodbye to Sal, who waves back, and then we head to the car. We hoist Betsy in the same way we did when we brought her.
“All right,” I say, turning to India as the trunk closes. “To the bookstore.”
“Are you buying me food first?”
“No,” I say, my lips twitching. “But there are three mini packs of Oreos in the glove compartment.”
She gasps loudly and overdramatically. “Three whole mini packs? For me? You really know how to spoil a girl.”
“Only the best for you, Sunshine.”
The Pretty Pageisn’t at all what I’m expecting. It appears to be little more than a hole in the wall, a red-brick facade sandwiched between a record shop and a bakery.
Main Street is buzzing at this time of day, strings of white lights strung cheerfully overhead, little clumps of shoppers out enjoying the warm evening.
Pleasant—that’s what my mother would call it. The weather, the waning light, the faint threads of music drifting on the breeze. It’s all perfectly pleasant, contentment perfuming the air like the flowering trees that line the street. I take a picture of the street and send it to her, because she likes to hear from me.
India bounces rather than walks next to me once we park, her face alight with happy eyes and curved lips. Despite her sarcasm about my Oreo offering earlier, she polished off all three mini packs on the way over here, and she made cute little eating noises the whole time.
“You’re excited, I see,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“The Pretty Page is one of my favorite places in all of Lucky,” she says. She shoots me a smile. “You wouldn’t believe how much time I spend here. Or how much money,” she adds, and her smile twists a bit with chagrin.
“Hey, it could be worse,” I say as I eye the front of the bookshop. My camera is around my neck, but I don’t take any pictures yet; I will once I get permission, and I’ll definitely want one of the exterior. There are dozens of paper hearts taped to the inside of the display windows, apparently cut from book pages, and a strand of twinkly lights around the edges. “You could be buying drugs,” I go on. “I wouldn’t stress about buying more books.”
“When you say things like that, your attractiveness level goes up at least three notches,” she says matter-of-factly, and I grin.
“So…from a ten out of ten to a fifteen out of ten?”
She shoots me a look. “Be honest with me, Felicia. Do you think ten plus three is fifteen?” But she’s smiling now, too, and I laugh. She reaches for the door handle, but I stop her.
“Hang on,” I say, and she looks at me, confused. “Before we go in, we need to review the assignment. We’re looking for specifically romantic aspects of this place, all right?”
She hears the skepticism in my voice, because she rolls her eyes. “You don’t trust me at all.”
“And especially the aspects that make it good for dates and date-like excursions. Any historical tidbits are welcome too,” I go on.
“Let’s just go in,” she says. “Or do you need a minute?”
I grab the door handle, and it opens with a lurch. India slips past me, and together we step inside.
“Oh, wow,” I say. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and they probably would have escaped even if I’d tried.
Because this bookstore looks less like a shop and more like another world altogether. There are more twinkly lights around the top of the space, and waning sunlight filters in through the windows. I don’t know much about interior design or color schemes, but there are a lot of pastels here, making everything feel light and airy and cheerful—ethereal, even. It smells good, too, like vanilla and cinnamon.
All right. I can see why India loves it here. I kind of like it too.
The girl behind the counter looks up and waves at us, straightening up and setting down the book she’s holding. She’s probably close to India’s age, with pale blonde hair and light eyes.
“India!” she says, a smile stretching across her face. “Hey! You haven’t been by in a while. How’s it going?”
“I know, I’ve been pretty busy,” India says—and I would just like to note that she rarely looks at me like this, open and friendly and free of sarcasm or scorn.
“How come you don’t smile at me like that?” I say to her, noting the curve of her lips. I point at her mouth. “What do I have to do to get one of those?”
“You’re blackmailing me,” India says in a low voice through her smile as the girl behind the counter approaches. “Blackmailers cannot expect friendliness.”
“It’s only a little blackmail,” I protest as we come to a stop next to a row of low bookshelves.