Page 14 of The Nook for Brooks
“It looks,” I said slowly. “Like a crime scene. A floral crime scene.”
He grinned wider. “That’s a grim take on things. I like it. Full of imagination. Seriously, though, I am sorry. Didn’t mean to knock you over. You okay?”
Of course I was okay. My shoulder didn’t ache, my books survived, and yet I hadn’t stopped thinking about the incident all day. Which was absurd.
“I’m fine,” I said, too quickly. “Thank you. You can go now.”
He propped an elbow on the counter, so close to the vase I thought he was going to knock it over. “Not until you forgive me,” he insisted with that big charming Aussie grin of his.
“That’s not how forgiveness works.”
“It is where I’m from.” He tapped the compass on his chest like that proved something. “In Australia we don’t leave until the flowers have done their job.”
I folded my arms, glaring at him beside the bobbing sunflower heads. “Then I suppose we’re… stuck.”
And that was precisely when Aunt Bea swanned in.
She’d had a costume change since this morning. Gone was the turquoise kaftan. In its place was a floor-length muumuu of shimmering gold, patterned with peacocks so vibrant they practically strutted off the fabric. Around her neck hung a string of beads so heavy it could double as a weapon, and her hair was now piled even higher—red and white curls this time teased into a bouffant that looked inspired by Clarry’s Raspberry and Vanilla Swirly-Whirly Ice Cream Pillar… without the sprinkles.
“Brooks, darling!” she boomed, arms outstretched like she’d just been lowered in on a Broadway harness. ““I knew I’d findthat bronzed newcomer of yours in here eventually. You didn’t think you could keep him hidden from me, did you?”
I gave her a suspicious look. “Bea, have you been staking out the Book Nook all day?”
“From that shady spot across the street? With a tall glass of lemonade and a splash of somethin-somethin? Why yes, of course. How else was I going to meet this sun-drenched Adonis?”
She was already circling him like a glitter-covered shark, bangles clinking, perfume radiating in a ten-foot radius. “Look at this jawline! Look at these shoulders! And that accent—oh my stars, say something. Anything.”
She grabbed the nearest book off the shelf, cracked it open, and shoved it under his nose. “Read to me, sunshine!”
He blinked at the page. “Uh…A Practical Guide to Septic Tank Maintenance.”
Bea fanned herself with both hands. “Mercy! My ovaries just bleated.”
“Bleated? Seriously? Not to mention, you don’thaveovaries,” I said, seriously considering whether it was too late to fake my own death.
The Australian cleared his throat, clearly fighting off a laugh. “G’day. I’m Cody.”
Bea’s eyes glittered like disco balls. She spread her arms wide, bangles clashing like cymbals. “And I,” she declared. “Am Aunt Bea. The jewel of Mulligan’s Mill, patron saint of those who like to sin, and living proof that not all angels stayed in heaven.”
She struck a pose like she was waiting for the orchestra to catch up, then lowered her voice to a purr. “When people speak of me—and they do, constantly—they say I am a once-in-a-lifetime event. Like Halley’s Comet, but easier to spot.”
Cody grinned, utterly charmed. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Of course you are,” Bea replied, tossing her curls. “Everyone is.”
I groaned—loudly—before Bea pressed a finger firmly to my lips. “Quiet, cherub, the adults are talking.” She turned back to him, patting his arm like she was checking it for ripeness. “Now tell me, do you wrestle crocodiles, or just hearts?”
He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.
I, on the other hand, was contemplating what size coffin would best fit both me and the books I’d already planned to be buried with.
Bea finally released Cody’s arm, though not before giving it a squeeze like she was appraising a melon at the market. “Mmmm, solid. You’ll do nicely.” Then, as if the entire conversation had been a springboard for a new performance, her gaze slid past him and landed on the nearest shelf.
“Well, what do we have here?” She drifted over, gown sweeping the air. “Poems! And you’ve even got a section just for Sylvia Plath… ‘The Oven Years?’” She clucked her tongue, scandalized. “Brooks, darling, unless you’ve discovered a long-lost cookbook of Plath’s favorite recipes, that’s dark… even for you.”
She turned back to Cody with a flourish, earrings flashing. “Don’t let the bow ties and book dust fool you, my cuddly koala. Our Brooks has a streak of shadows running right through him. Brooding, tragic, dramatic—he’s like our very ownWuthering Heights, both the Emily Bronte and Kate Bush versions.”
Cody raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is he now?”
