Book Lovers

Is there anything better than iced coffee and a bookstore on a sunny day? I mean, aside from hot coffee and a bookstore on a rainy day.

“I’m not talking about you at all,” he says. “I’m talking about Nadine Winters. My fictional crush.”

After we eat, I return to work and Libby turns her focus to a Mhairi McFarlane novel, gasping and laughing so regularly and loudly that, finally, Charlie’s gruff voice calls from the other room, “Could you keep that down? Every time you gasp like that, you almost give me a heart attack.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” “It should. I’m scary.” He pitches forward over the desk, biceps tightening, mouth in a sultry pout. “Not with those bangs. You’re extremely approachable.”

“That it was all a game. My paintings hadn’t changed, but suddenly all these places that had turned me down wanted me. People who’d never looked my way were all over me. Hardly mattered what I made. My work became a status symbol, nothing more, nothing less.”

Of course, he says. That’s what sharks are known for: manners.

“Did he just bring us butt pillows?” “I believe he did,” I agree. “Count von Lastra has a beating heart,” she says. “I can hear you,” he calls. “The undead have famously heightened senses,” I tell Libby.

There’s nothing but shaggy, sun-blanched grass on either side of the narrow dirt road. Ahead, it ends abruptly, and a meadow slopes upward, riddled with sprays of yellow and purple wildflowers. A dead end. Which begs the question: are we about to be murdered?

“And all those people who made you feel like you were,” he says huskily, “have fucking terrible taste.”