Page 19 of The Nook for Brooks
Cody laughed, and before I even realized it, I was laughing too.
His smile took on a new angle, something more than just charming and handsome. It was a smile of approval, that he liked the way I laughed, that he liked watching me open up a little.
Bea also noticed and momentarily joined the conversation as she slid the next round toward us. “I have a favorite book. Any guesses?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Cody answered, the look on his face begging for an answer.
“The Valley of the Dollsby Jacqualine Susann, of course. Three women, pills, booze, and Broadway. Honestly, it’s like my memoir, but with worse wigs.” Sharp as a hawk, something across the bar caught her eye. “Is Bo Harlow about to change the song on the jukebox? He knows he’s banned from thatcave of wonders. And nobody interrupts the tracks of Smokey Robinson’s tears. If you’ll excuse me, my literary lamb chops.”
With that, she stormed over to Bo once more.
Cody turned his attention back to me. “Right-o then, time to pick Brooks Beresford’s all-time favorite book. I’m guessing there’s only one or two thousand to choose from.”
“That’s being conservative,” I said.
“Don’t even try to psych me out. I’ve got this. Piece of piss. You watch.” He sat back, drumming his fingers against his beer bottle, and stared into my face the same way I had stared into his.
“So, here’s the thing. You, Brooks Beresford, are precise. You’ve got your little tower, your bow ties, and your cinnamon tea, which I’m pretty certain you drink from a cup and saucer. You love order. You probably alphabetized your teddy bears as a kid. So, my first guess has to be something perfect, polished, respectable. A classic that never goes out of style, with a leading man as tightly wound as you. Yet there’s a clever wit about you, so this book needs to be smart, funny, but still nicely buttoned up. It’s all about manners and appearances, and people pretending they’re not into each other until—spoiler alert—they absolutely are. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I braced myself.
“Your favorite book, Brooks Beresford, isPride and Prejudice,” he announced with a flourish.
I sniffed. “Predictable.”
“And correct?”
“Close. But no.”
He slapped the bar in mock despair. “Unbelievable. You’re Mr. Darcy in a bow tie! It’s basically your autobiography. Stiff, broody, secretly romantic—”
“I am not broody,” I cut in sharply.
He hitched an eyebrow.
“Or secretly romantic,” I added quickly.
“Oh, come on. You’re the dictionary definition of broody,” he fired back. “And as for secretly romantic, well, time will tell.”
“Fine,” he said, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Let’s take another crack. You’ve got a dramatic streak, Brooks. Don’t even deny it. You turn a dropped bookmark into a Shakespearean tragedy. You treat dust jackets like they’re national treasures. You’ve got gothic energy written all over you. So maybe you’d go for something darker. Something with shadows, obsession, and a bloke who hides away in his castle, convinced he can make something perfect if he just works hard enough at it. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
I folded my arms. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“Of course you don’t. Because it’s dead-on. Your favorite book of all time is Mary Shelley’sFrankenstein.”
I sit with a smug smile on my face. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Look at you, locked away in your tower, building your masterpiece of a bookstore one stitch at a time—except instead of body parts, it’s book sections. Mate, youareVictor bloody Frankenstein.”
“I am nothing like Victor Frankenstein!” I spluttered. “For one thing, I don’t dig up corpses.”
“Maybe if I knew you a little better.”
“You assume everyone you meet is a grave-robber until you get to know them a little better?”
He shrugged and chugged some more beer. “Everyone has their peccadillos.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, then. Two down. One chance left.
