Page 77 of The Write Choice

It only takes a few minutes to get there. When I pull up, it’s clear I’m in the middle of downtown Leade Park. I certainly wouldn’t call this a small town, but it’s quaint, with a train running through the middle of it on its way to Chicago. The buildings look like they’ve been updated several times since they were built at the turn of a past century.

All Booked Up, which is a sickly-sweet name for a bookstore, is a storefront sandwiched between an indoor plant shop and a furniture shop that looks like it has long passed its heyday. When I pull the door to the shop open, there’s a ding of a bell—because of course there is. The inside is just as quaint as the outside, with oak bookshelves lining the walls and creating faux-aisles through the front of the store. The faint sound of a milk steamer comes from the back of the store, and I’m overwhelmed by the inky, faintly almond smell of books and coffee. It’s not the same kind of overwhelm as kids screaming and making dinner, though. It’s more akin to a soft blanket covering my brain, soothing over some of the raw edges from my recent conversations.

A faint smile plays at my lips as I stand just inside the door, taking in the space. Maybe I’ll paint this later. I’d like to try to capture the comfort of the moment just after you walk in the doors of a space that feels like home.

The store is relatively empty, which makes sense for a weekday afternoon. A blonde woman sits at the counter to my left. She had been reading but puts her bookmark in the book to mark her page and looks up at me.

“Hello!” she says cheerfully. “Anything I can help you find?”

“Romance?” I ask.

She smiles conspiratorially and ticks her eyebrow up a bit. “Rom-com or something steamier?”

I laugh, then give her the title Jenny mentioned in her text messages. The woman hums, still smiling, as she leads the way toward the back of the store. She points out the book I’m looking for, then winks and leaves me to browse. The cover pictures only a half-naked man whose pants are slung lower on his hips than anyone would wear them as he wraps his arm behind his head to flex his chest muscles. I figure I may as well lean into this new-to-me genre, so I pull two other books with similar covers off the shelf before I make my way back to order coffee.

The café area is empty save for one table absolutely covered in papers and notebooks. A man sits there with his back to me. He’s wearing a well-loved gray cardigan, and one of his hands is shoved in his dark, wavy hair while the fingers of the other tap out an erratic rhythm on top of the table.

I laugh silently and put on my best, high-pitched fangirl voice. “Oh my god. Is that the famous Daniel Evans?”

He stiffens and his fingers go still on the top of the table. I shouldn’t mess with him, but it’s too easy. He hates when people recognize him in public.

Daniel turns around slowly, and when he sees me, his shoulders sag in relief.

“Dammit, Katie.” He narrows his eyes at me.

My shoulders shake as I try to control my laughter. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” I walk toward his table. “Writing the next Great American Novel to torture high school students all across the country?”

Someone snorts from behind the counter. I whip my head toward the sound, unaware there was someone back there. It’s a younger version of the blonde woman who welcomed me into the store. She covers her mouth quickly. “Oh, sorry.”

Daniel smiles good-naturedly. “Aimee, meet Katie. She’s a friend from New York. Katie, this is Aimee. She was a student in Mac’s class when I shadowed her a few years ago. Her mom owns this place.”

“Ah, so you’re well acquainted with Daniel’s torturous prose, then,” I tease.

She laughs brightly. “We all read the book Mr. Evans wrote about us, so, yeah, I guess.”

I turn to Daniel and silently mouth, “Mr. Evans?” Daniel shrugs, though I can tell the name makes him proud.

He nods toward the books I’m holding. “What torturous prose are you after today?”

I feel color rising to my cheeks. Daniel must see it, too, because his smile turns wicked. I flash the cover at him, then quickly turn it back toward my body.

He gives a hearty chuckle. “Oh, I read one of those once.”

My eyes bug out of my head. “You did not,” I say in disbelief.

He nods, smiling. “I did it to impress a girl.”

“Did it work?” I ask, though I think I already know the answer.

Sure enough, he replies, “It did.” He ticks an eyebrow upward and motions toward an empty chair, indicating I should sit. “Jenny got to you, too?”

I sink into it, putting the books face-down on the only remaining space on top of the table. I’m not sure how weird it is to have one of Daniel’s former students—if you could even call her that—knowing I’m reading smut. “You could say that.”

Aimee giggles. “Miss Green always had interesting taste in books.”