I’m a librarian with a chronic affliction for being alone, and I’m on a first-name basis with my local Vietnamese restaurant when I’m ordering pho for one, is what I am.
“Find a playmate for Christmas. I wanna know all the details of using your new presents.”
Rolling my eyes, I carefully pick my way across the patches of snow on the sidewalk. “The delusion is strong with you, my girl. Go nap off your pills. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Byeeeee.”
Hiking the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I hang up and then shrug deeper into my coat collar. The wind is bracing—anit’s about to snow any second motherfuckerchill to the air—as I make my way toward the bookstore. The front door curling a finger in my direction and singing my name.
Because, of course, it does. I’ve forever been the girl who felt more at home in worlds of fantasy. Always stumbling through life with my head in the clouds. The little kid who went to bed every night with a flashlight hidden under the covers so she could read a little more in secret. Who went to sleep wishing I’d wake up to find myself being spirited away by fairy princes, or whisked into the depths of the ocean by mermaids.
Probably why my Aunt’s family, who took me in after the accident, have always given me thatlook. As if I’m some strange, confusing little oddity they can’t understand. A charity project they’ve tried their best to fix up. Puzzling in an alien way. Like everyone knows there’s something faulty with me, but can’t really be bothered to figure out what to do about the glitch in my wiring.
I just wish their opinions didn’t feel so true.
I really am the odd one out. The girl who loved to hide away with her nose in a book, when my cousins were cheerleading on the sidelines at every football match. Barely scraping past five feet tall, with curves and thick thighs, instead of gliding throughlife, as blond and tanned as a runway model strutting Milan fashion week. Getting sweaty palms and wanting to escape from crowds, rather than thriving off being the center of attention.
My aunt always gets this pinched expression on her face when she looks at me, even now as an adult, when we meet for an obligatory coffee a couple of times a year. Her eyebrows zip together when she tilts her head to one side, mouth pursing, as she lets out a sigh. One of those long-suffering sounds of displeasure. Unspoken words hover in the air, even if she never actually says them.What on earth am I supposed to do with you, Mia? Why can’t you be more like your cousins? Who would want to be with someone more interested in fictional characters than going out with friends on a Friday night?
So, I push my way inside the cute little bookstore, with a bell ringing above my head as I pass over the threshold. I take a deep hit of that scent of paper and printer ink and second-hand stories in search of a new home… and I feel like all is right in the world for a brief moment in time.
A raspy female voice calls out from somewhere hidden among the shelves. “Take all the time you like browsing. Oh, and Margot, if that’s you, I’ve got your first editions with the step-back covers safely behind the counter, waiting for you. Don’t go panicking on me now, I kept them aside just for you.”
I can’t help the smile that curves my lips. Not only a bookstore, but awell-stockedbookstore, it would seem. There are a few sections of non-fiction, travel, the usual heavy hitters where thrillers and mystery are concerned… and it’s as if the snowy-laden clouds overhead part, to beam down a smutty choir song and act as a glowing beacon.
A dedicated romance section fills the entire right-hand side of the store. Row after row. Shelf after shelf. I have to suppress a squeal of delight, determined not to lose my cool at finding such a treasure trove.
Maybe I can convince the owner to let me hide out here for the next couple of days? They’ve got a handwritten “help wanted” sign jauntily taped to the front window after all.
Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I snap a quick photo to send to Keri.
Me:
Found utopia.
Browsing quickly evolves into pulling titles off shelves with a growing stack to purchase. They’ve not only got just about every subgenre of romance, but my attention zeroes in on the true love of my adult reader life.
Horns. Knots. Razor-sharp teeth.
Monsters will always have my heart.
All those nights spent staying up long past my bedtime reading about enchanted forests, beasts, and things that lurk in the shadows have given me kinks I can’t deny. A gruff, growly, possessive creature with specialskills? Give me as many as possible. Preferably all at the same time.
I’m officially in my element, lost to the thrill of plucking monster romances off the shelf as if they’re fancy-penis flavored candy, when a text pings in reply from Keri.
My brief moment of delight turns into a nightmare.
Keri:
Emergency.
S O MOTHERFUCKING S
Image attached.
At first, I assume it must be her painkillers working overtime, and my best friend is playing a prank on me. Then I see that she’s sent me a screenshot of an Instagram post.
Big flashy diamond ring.
