Page 139 of The Holiday Fakers
“You okay?” Brody asks immediately, his voice laced with the same concern Ethan might show if Martha cried out.
“Yes, fine,” I reply, blinking the pain away. “But I think it’s about to ha?—”
“Quick!” Mom cries, as hailstones lash down like God’s unloading a dump truck full of gravel on us.
We run forward, dodging patches of ice on the sidewalk toward the store, where people are rushing two folding tables inside along with baskets of pulla bread.
Inside the bookstore, it’s carnage. Mom said no one would show, but the place is packed, and there's no room to breathe. My favorite bookstore in Brooklyn is light and airy, with attractive displays of the latest social-media-trending reads. The interior of Hard to Find looks like it belongs to a book hoarder from a Charles Dickens novel, with haphazard piles of books, dark wood shelves filled with leather-bound classics, and small, awkward spaces that force strangers to stand uncomfortably close.
Eileen is helping Fredrik, whose face is harried, like he’d rather be anywhere else than in his own business right now. A pretty woman, wearing a peach-colored fluffy jacket over an emerald green dress, who I presume is Noelle, is balancing a stack of baskets that look about to tip.
As a team, we go to her side, taking them from her so she can help Eileen and Fredrik clear space for the tables among the crowd.
“Here, you can carry mine,” Mom says, dumping hers into Brody’s arms, then shouting to Eileen that she’s coming.
We edge back toward a bookshelf as the smell of pulla makes my stomach gurgle with excitement.
Brody grins. “So much for no one turning up.”
“It looks like Mom and Eileen told everyone the same story and made them promise to show.”
“Fredrik looks thrilled.”
I snort with laughter. “Poor guy. He’ll either have to leave town or marry Noelle just to get Mom and Eileen off his back.”
Despite the chaos inside, people soon spot Brody, and within a couple of minutes, we’re hemmed in by a sea of excited female faces.
“Oh, my gosh!The Almanacdidn’t say you would be here!”
“Do you remember me from the Perfect Package?”
“Can I get a selfie?”
Brody smiles, but there’s tension in it, and his eyes dart to the entrance.
“I’d love to, but my arms are a bit full right now,” he says.
“We’ll take them!” a woman replies, and a few seconds later, there’s nothing between us and his adoring fans.
A younger woman, maybe in her early-twenties, stares at me, then puts her hand on her heart and gasps. “You’re Piper!”
“Er, yes?”
“You’re the one who did those pictures of Brody!”
I’m utterly confused. Is she talking about photos I’ve taken of him?
“Oh my gosh, they’re lit! You’re like sooo talented!”
“I think they’re even better than AI,” another woman chimes in. “You should definitely get your own account and post them there.”
Icy fingers of panic tighten around my throat. “W-what pictures?”
The first woman takes out her phone. “The ones Brody posted to his socials.” She shows me the screen, swiping through image after image. “Of him as the Emberking of Draventhorne and the Warlock of Zhash-Dhrog. They’re next-level hot.”
My gut is rolling, threatening to bring up my breakfast. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. All the pictures that only the two of us even knew existed are now plastered all over his social media.
It’s my worst nightmare made real. I never drew these for anyone’s eyes but mine, and now the man I trusted with my heart has put them on display for anyone to pick apart.
