Page 35 of The Nook for Brooks
“Oh! Okay.”
Ronnie jumped in. “And macarons? Nobody knows what the heck they are, so we’re calling them Pride Parade Oreos.”
“Madeleines,” Lonnie added. “Are basically French Tater Tots, let’s be honest.”
Ronnie leaned close, eyes wide with mischief. “And don’t even get us started on mille-feuille. Who can pronounce that? We’re now calling it a Custard Reuben Sandwich.”
I gave a helpless grin. “Wow. Those names are… fascinating. Although you might wanna run some of them past a team of lawyers first.”
“Already on it,” Ronnie announced proudly. “Lenny the town lawyer is looking into trademarking these names as we speak.”
“Granted, he hasn’t practiced law for a good thirty years now,” Lonnie whispered on the side. “Not since he was caught in that rinky-dink motel with a suitcase full of cash and a lady ofthe night who was on the run from the Mexican mafia. Honestly, he’s lucky the police found him before his body was cut up into little pieces and sent to his dear old mother. She’s got a heart condition, poor thing. Opening a DHL parcel with a foot inside is nobody’s idea of a pleasant surprise.”
“So does Pascal know about your little rebrand?” I asked.
They both leaned in closer. “Not yet,” Ronnie said.
“We’re waiting for the right time to tell him,” Lonnie added. “The French can get very emotional about these things. But we know in the long run it’s for the best.” Suddenly she pulled back and beamed like she just won Employee of the Month. “Now, sweetie… what can we get you?”
The bell over the Book Nook door gave its polite little chime as I pushed my way inside, holding a paper bag of croissants in one hand like it was precious cargo.
The moment he heard the ring, Brooks looked up from behind the counter. And for the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t look… rigid. His bow tie was still in place—of course it was—but his hair had a softer wave to it, like he hadn’t drowned it in quite as much gel. And I swear his sleeves were rolled up just a fraction, maybe just an inch above the cuff, but enough to bare a sliver of forearm. It was positively bordering on scandal.
“G’day,” I said, more out of habit than any attempt to sound overtly Aussie. “I come bearing delicious gifts.” I held up the bag.
Instantly Brooks’s face lit up. “A man of his word!” His nostrils twitched and his eyelids batted at the aroma that filled the bookstore. For a moment I thought his knees would actually buckle and I was more than ready to swoop in a save him.
Instead, he stiffened, pulled at his bow tie, and said, “Well. I suppose we may as well… indulge.”
I plonked the bag down on the counter, tore it open, and handed him one of Pascal’s buttery masterpieces. He held it like it was rare parchment, inspecting the layers.
“Why don’t I run upstairs and get some plates?” he suggested. “And some napkins. And perhaps some cutlery. Knife? Fork? Spork?”
“Nah, we’re right,” I said with a wave of my hand. I flattened out the empty paper bag like it was a mini picnic blanket. “This’ll catch any crumbs. So, how’d you sleep?”
He hesitated, then said, “Like a baby. I guess the storm knocked me out completely.”
“Same,” I said, taking a giant bite. Flakes exploded everywhere—down my shirt, across the counter, drifting to the floor. “Although ironically, most babies don’t sleep well at all. Most of them wake up every two hours and cry half the night, so God knows who the bloody galah was who came up with that ex—”
I stopped talking when I saw Brooks staring wide-eyed at the flakes that had fallen from my croissant.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned, more buttery remnants falling from my bottom lip as I spoke. “Just enjoy your breakfast, would you? I’ll clean up once we’re done.”
His gaze lingered on the tiny golden flakes on his polished floorboards. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for a broom.
Then suddenly he drew in a sharp breath, squared his shoulders, and—miracle of miracles—took a bite of his croissant. Holding it in hishands. Tearing into it with his teeth.
Mr. Hyde was back.
Flakes fell from the corner of his mouth onto the counter. He saw it. I saw it. The ghosts of every author in the room saw it.
And still he continued hoeing into his tucker.
I nearly dropped my own croissant. “Holy shit,” I grinned. “Brooks Beresford, living life on the edge. Next thing you know you’ll be flipping straight to the back of mystery novels to find out who the killer is before you’ve even finished the first chapter.”
He swallowed, gave a prim little sniff, and said, “There’s no need, I’ll have already worked out the guilty party in the first ten pages.”
I laughed. “It’s always the butler, right?”
