Page 35
“I am a fisher of men,” he said with a grin.
Molly blinked, uncertain if she was meant to be confused by that statement. “Did you just quote the bible? With a side of innuendo?”
He looped his arm with hers again. “I’m quoting you, technically. Unless you mean to imply you plagiarized a holy work for my boyfriend hunting efforts?”
Molly’s mouth dropped open, and only Eli’s grip and forward momentum kept her from sinking into the ground.
“No comment,” she said.
Eli winked. “This is why we’re such good friends. I’m not even going to complain about how long you spend browsing today.”
Molly felt a little unmoored. She’d expected to spend her day organizing her books in the apartment. Then she’d planned to sit with her cat in her lap, a warm beverage at her side. Instead, she found herself walking arm in arm with Elliot Reyes as he steered her into a bookstore.
She sucked in a breath. “Is this . . .”
“Don’t overthink it.” Eli’s grip on her arm finally released as he opened the door for her. “We’re just here to shop.”
“How can I not overthink it?” Molly’s thoughts spun as she entered her alleged workplace for the first time. At least, for the first time she knew of.
“You’re not here to work. You’re not here to meet anyone. We’re only here to get this out of the way in case the reality of this place has been ominously haunting you, or whatever.” Eli said it casually, inspecting a button on his shirtsleeve as he leaned against a wall, but he was so shockingly accurate that it nearly left Molly breathless.
It had been ominously haunting her. But only a little. It was intimidating, the idea of this huge and unexpected aspect of her identity. And of all people, evidently Eli knew her well enough to not only guess at that problem, but to go ahead and solve it.
She already felt a little lighter, a little less tense, by putting an image to the concept of her career.
Molly had frequented a fair number of independent bookstores in her life, and she was pleased to find this one held in balance some of her favorite things. Light wood shelving and enough sunlight to feel bright and airy, the kind of place where sunbeams streaked through the air as if painted with brushstrokes and dappled with dust motes. But also enough shelves, parallel and perpendicular and every which way, that Molly could practically sense all the little nooks and crannies, all the tucked-away places that made for cozy literary caves.
It was an orderly shop, but also a bit unruly, as Molly believed all book-related endeavors should be. If a book was an opportunity to lose oneself between its bindings, then a bookstore was an opportunity to find oneself between its walls. Libraries too, but since she was trying to see this place with optimism for her own life, she could give bookstores their due credit. She exhaled, slow and steady. She felt strangely, inexplicably, at home.
A hand grazed her elbow, and when Molly turned, she found Eli beside her, cautiously watching her reaction.
“Just shopping,” he repeated.
She offered him a smile she hoped conveyed the gratitude she wasn’t yet sure how to verbalize. “I don’t think we have room for any new books at the apartment,” she said, locking eyes with an especially interesting new release that touted glowing reviews.
Eli barked a laugh. “Don’t ruin my day now. Forcing you to add to that ridiculous collection is one of my favorite pastimes.” He resumed leaning, this time against the shelf beside her. “And not just because it annoys Aster, though that’s certainly a plus.”
She only feigned hesitation for a brief moment; she was allowed one small peek at a pretty new release.
“Also,” Eli began, “I have a confession.”
“Confession?” she asked absently, flipping to the author biography in the back, trying to place how she knew the name.
“I didn’t kidnap you without motive,” Eli said, gently pulling the book from her hands. “We’ll get this for Aster in a second.”
“I was looking at it for me.”
“Liar. Even I know this is his favorite author. But this is about me, remember?”
Molly waited patiently for him to confess whatever he had to confess, willing to accept the distraction from having subconsciously selected Bishop’s favorite author. One thing at a time, just like at the hospital. Her life was so much more manageable in bite-sized pieces, no matter how infantilizing such portioning felt.
“I need to give you some tough love,” he said, flipping idly through the book he’d stolen from her. “Huh. Looks confusing.” He pushed off the shelf, approached the cashier, and had already paid for the book and handed it back to Molly before she fully realized what he was doing.
“You didn’t need to—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He gestured to himself. “Wealthy, remember?”
Molly might have protested further, but she paused upon realizing who was standing near a display of new releases directly in her and Eli’s path.
