Page 8 of Bookish Boys Don't Date Social Girls
“I think the wedding has given you as much of a glow as Ines.”
Mom draws a deep breath through her nose before answering. “I can’t lie, being the mother of the bride is as lovely as it is terrifying.”
“Terrifying?”
Mom shifts her weight from one high heel to the other. “Though I love Lincoln, I’m still Ines’s mother, and I worry about her making such a commitment. It also makes me feel old to have a child old enough to marry.”
I laugh. “You’ve been old enough for that for a while now, you just haven’t had anyone marry yet.”
“Technically that is true.”
I tilt my head. “Is the age thing the terrifying part?”
“No.” Mom takes my hand and squeezes. “Each step you children take away from us is more terrifying than the last. Your father and I have tried to raise independent, compassionate, problem-solving young adults, and I think we’ve done well. I’m so very proud of the people each of you are. But the less control I have over your happiness, the scarier it is.”
I squeeze her hand back and say in a loving tone, “Control freak.”
We laugh together and she kisses my cheek. “Have a good day, my love.”
“You too, Mom.”
I putz around the house until almost noon when I hop in my car and drive downtown. I find a spot for Sunny in the cool shade of the parking garage and walk toward the old theater, hoping Beckett’s is easy to find. It’s strange that I don’t recognize the name of the store since I shop downtown all the time.
There’s no hurry, so I slow my pace and enjoy the window displays. A heart-shaped, red satin purse makes me detour into a clothing store to make a quick purchase. Then, a blockdown, I halt and gape at a sign over a pink door. Beckett’s Book Shop and Café. No wonder I didn’t recognize the name. It’s a bookstore. I chuckle to myself as I step forward to pull the door open.
A bell tinkles overhead as I enter. The rich aroma of coffee pairs enticingly with the sugary scent of pastries, and the dry papery scent of books. The store has a cozy feel, with hardwood floors and soft lighting. Sitting areas of loveseats and armchairs are surrounded by bookshelves to the ceiling. I want to grab a mocha, find a seat, page through a magazine, and maybe never leave. Why have I never been in here before? Oh yeah, I don’t read.
I wind my way to the register, which is also where you order your drink. I scan the handwritten menu hanging over the small glass display and see they offer simple sandwiches also. I’m falling in love with this place and considering taking up reading in order to hang out here.
“Can I help you?”
My gaze drops to the person who stepped up to the counter, and my smile freezes on my face. Brent Post eyes me suspiciously. I totally forgot he works here. My cheeks flush with embarrassment, as if he knows that Ava and Bek suggested I date him. His suspicion tells me he might. Panic floods me and I consider fleeing. A rather alien response for me, which leaves me even more unsettled.
“Can. I. Help. You?” He says it slowly, but not like I’m daft. More like he’s wondering if English isn’t my first language.
“Oh, yeah, um. My mom has a hold. It must be a book.”
“Ah, that makes more sense.” He walks to a waist-high bookshelf behind the counter. “Amanda Jones?”
I nod. How did he know? I roll my eyes. Same way I know his name, duh. We’ve been going to school together our entire lives.
He pulls the book from the shelf and saunters back to the counter. I’m drawn to the way he moves. He has a certain predatory grace. A stalking panther. The male lead in a ballet. “Here you go.”
The book he sets in front of me is a guide to planning a fast wedding. I laugh when I see the title. Ines will somehow find an insult in this, I’m sure. I pull my wallet from my purse.
“It was paid for online,” Brent says. “You’re good to go.”
“Oh.” When I meet his gaze, I totally understand Bek’s giggle that night when Ava said Brent is good-looking. His eyes are deep emerald pools, and suddenly I’m breathless from drowning. His glasses are his camouflage, to keep predators like me at bay. “Um, maybe I’ll get a coffee. A mocha actually.”
An eyebrow twitches, like he wants to question my decision, but he asks, “To go?”
I scan the store and shake my head. “For here. I’ll take a chocolate-filled croissant, too.”
“Our pastries are from the local bakery, Rise.” Brent grabs tongs and places a croissant on a small plate. “Heated?”
Yes, I am, I think when his questioning gaze meets mine. “Please.”
He puts the plate in a toaster oven and spins a dial before moving over to the coffee station to make my mocha. I’m enthralled by his lithe movements. My memory described him as lanky. What was I thinking?
