Page 8 of The Nook for Brooks
I choked. “Bea!”
Gage shuddered with laughter. “Oh my god, Brooks, your face. You look like someone just told you the Dewey Decimal System was a hoax.”
“Can we just please stop talking about the hot Aussie?”
“A-ha!” Bea said, slapping the counter. “And there it is. You do admit he’s hot.”
“He knocked me into a shelf and almost ruined my books,” I pivoted swiftly. “That’s not someone who’s hot. That’s a liability.”
Bea leaned in, eyes glinting. “Darling, some of usenjoya little liability. Keeps the blood pumping. It’s good for the circulation, you know.” She perched herself on the stool behind the counter, arranging the folds of her kaftan like she was about to issue a royal decree. “Brooks, sweet cherub, listen to your Aunt Bea. You’ve been cooped up here with nothing but retirees and romance novels for company. The universe is clearly sending you a six-foot, sun-kissed distraction for good reason. And from where I’m sitting, he looks perfectly bound and ready to leap off the shelf.”
“Bea!” I leveled a death stare at her.
“What? He could be your very own paperback hero. And you know I’m right.”
Gage was grinning like a cat with the cream. “So, when’s he coming back?”
“He’s not,” I said firmly. “With any luck, he’s already lost in the woods with his stupid compass.”
“If he is, I do hope you’ll go find him.” Bea slid off the stool like a stage diva answering her curtain call. “Like my Grammy always said—a man in the bush is worth every bramble scratch. The only thing that outlasts a scar, darling… is regret.”
CODY
I checkedmy compass out of habit.
It pointed to “you’re in the right place.”
Yep, not only did the needle point to the usual north, south, east, and west, but inscribed on the face were little messages like “you’re in the right place,” and “maybe backtrack a little,” and “chalk this up to bad timing.” It was kind of like the fortune cookie of compasses, something that offered both advice and direction. I’d found it in a bazaar in Oman, and despite the gimmick, it had actually got me through more scrapes than I could count.
As I walked away from the steps of Benji and Bastian’s BnB, ready to properly explore Mulligan’s Mill, the heat from the sun took me by surprise.
Wisconsin in summer wasn’t supposed to feel like Queensland in January, but here I was, already sweating through my shirt before I’d even got to the end of the block. I should’ve filled my water bottle back at the BnB. Rookie move.
Before me, the town spread out neat as a pin.
Porch swings creaked in the breeze, flowerboxes spilled over with geraniums and petunias, and shopfront windows were so polished I could see my own sweaty mug staring back at me.
There was, unexpectedly, one exception to the postcard-perfect look. And of course, I was instantly drawn to it.
Raven’s General Storelooked like it had been there since the dawn of time, porch boards groaning as I walked up to the front door, windows displays jammed with everything from tins of beans to fishing lures that looked like sick parrots. “Jesus, what’s in that river?” I muttered to myself.
I opened the door with caution and curiosity.
Inside, the air smelled of leather, dust, and jerky so old it probably arrived on the first canoe into town.
Shelves were stacked with snowshoes and wind-up radios and dreamcatchers and jars of pickled… things! There were toasters and hot-water bottles and kerosene lamps and powdered milk in battered tins. There was a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like squirrels, knitted tea cozies shaped like owls, and a fondue pot that may or may not have been used before.
I was in kitsch heaven.
And to top it all off, behind the counter sat a man who could’ve been carved straight out of the timber holding up the place.
He had long black hair with silver streaks, braided neatly, and his face was lined but sharp, eyes dark and steady. He looked at me the way a hawk looks at a rabbit—no rush, no fuss, but I knew he’d already sized me up.
“Hot out,” he said, his voice as flat as his gaze. “You look like you need a bottle of water.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
He tilted his chin toward a crate by the counter. The bottles inside looked like they’d been stacked there since last summer. I crouched, grabbed one, and dropped it on the counter with a clunk.
