Page 64 of The Nook for Brooks
“Well,” I said briskly, through something tight in my throat. “You’re welcome.”
“I read half of it the first night, and the rest last night. I couldn’t stop. And I did what you asked! I picked the most frightening dragon.”
“Oh?” I tugged at my sleeves, trying not to look ridiculous. “And who might that be?”
He pushed his glasses up with a solemn finger. “The Boneclaw Behemoth. Found in the shadow woods of Elderspire. His scales are black as coal, and they say he can swallow an entire knight in a single gulp.”
My stomach gave an uncomfortable twitch. “Woods, you say?”
Milton nodded eagerly. “But you don’t have to worry, Mr. Beresford. He’s not unstoppable. The book says the trick isn’t fighting him with fire or steel, it’s outsmarting him. The bravest knight calls to his two comrades, and together the three knights climb on each other’s shoulders, spreading their arms wide, rattling their swords, shouting at the top of their lungs, until they look bigger and more frightening than the dragon itself. And the Boneclaw Behemoth, terrified, slinks away.”
I blinked at him. “So, the secret is… looking taller?”
“And louder,” Milton said, deadly serious. “Size and volume. That’s how you win. The knight knew if you stand small and quiet, the dragon will eat you. But if you look like a giant—if you show no fear—he runs.”
I forced a thin smile. “Fascinating. Charming in theory, hopeless in reality, of course. Knights and comrades and swords aren’t exactly in ready supply around here.”
Milton shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s good to know, right? In case you ever run into a dragon in the woods.”
I laughed, rather nervously. “Yes. Quite. Dragons in the woods. Imagine that.”
CODY
I’d meantto clear my head with a walk, but the farther I went along the edge of town, the more my brain kept looping back to Brooks’s face when I’d told him about Patagonia.
That sharpness in his eyes. That stiffness in his voice. The way he’d told me to get dressed and leave.
“Fuck!”
Had I fucked up the best thing that had happened to me since… forever?
I kicked a stone down the trail, hands shoved in my pockets. I hated that I’d made him feel small in his own space. The man lived in a tower like a storybook prince—I was supposed to be the knight in shining armor, not the villain who crushed his soul with three syllables: Pa-ta-go-nia.
Wait, that was five. Whatever.
By the time the afternoon sun began to head toward the west, the twinkling festoon lights ofAunt Bea’s Barnyard Barflickered through the trees. I checked my watch. It was almost four, kinda early, but like we travelers say—somewhere in the world it’s beer time. And hell, I sure needed a drink.
I pushed the door open and found Aunt Bea behind the counter, arranging bottles into a rainbow like she was curatingan exhibit at MoMA. She was in a feathered bolero, pink hair piled so high it looked like she’d stolen the clouds at sunset.
“Well, well, well,” she said, turning with a flourish, hand already on her hip. “If it isn’t the other half of my tragic little soap opera. I’ve already had the first act from Brooks this morning, so don’t think you can waltz in here and charm me with those damn gorgeous dimples of yours. Sit. Drink. Spill.”
She snapped her fingers and slid a glass down the polished wood like a Vegas croupier. “Now, what’s your cocktail of choice?”
I slid my sorry arse onto a stool. “Actually, I’ll just have whatever beer’s on tap.”
“Darling, the taps are just for show. The cocktails are the real deal. Now talk—you look almost as miserable as the boy in the book tower.”
“So, you saw him, huh? He told you, huh?” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I think I might have totally screwed things up.”
“Of course you did.” Bea leaned on the bar, chin in her hand, utterly unbothered. “That’s what men do. The question is, can it be fixed?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “I have no idea. I’ve been pitching the Patagonia gig for the past year. That’s my job. This is what I do.” I shook my head. “But the truth is, I don’t want to lose Brooks. Not now. Not when we’ve finally… found this thing.”
Bea slid a coaster toward me and plunked down a glass with something pink and fizzy in it, complete with a cherry skewered by a little cocktail umbrella. “Here’s the rub, sugarplum. You’ve been living out of a backpack so long, you’ve convinced yourself roots are chains. But sometimes the bravest thing isn’t the next flight, or the next byline. Sometimes the bravest thing is to stop. To stay. To let one place—or one person—be enough.”
I stared at the fizzing cocktail like it had answers. “You think home is… enough?”
“I think home,” Bea said, topping my glass with a twist of fairy floss. “Is the best thing you can ever hope for. If you’re lucky enough to find it.”
