Page 66 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I’m starting to see why I was prompted to come along.

“And so, when you referenced the eighteenth-century word hibernacle on page 220, were you referring symbolically to a winter retreat with regard to Harriet’s soul needing refuge after the losses in her life and emotional meandering, or were you speaking more specifically about the haven she’s discovered at the Magnolia Bookstore and she and Nate’s yearly meetups?”

I swivel round. Take a few steps backward into the dark protection of the staff hallway behind me where I was strategically set up. With one raised finger I tap the back of the earpiece as I face the stack of cardboard boxes spilling over with books.

Actually, the answer is: It was neither. I referenced hibernacle because I came across it on a defunct-word-of-the-day calendar Gran gave me for Christmas, and I liked it enough to slip it in. If I had to pick an answer from the two choices, however, I’d go with Magnolia Bookstore and Nate being a haven for Harriet. One could easily make a case for it.

And I should go on and make a case for it, I suppose as I look down at the dozens of copies of a political book release from an open box, a black-and-white photo of a man smiling a little too brightly up at me with his arms crossed over his chest. I should use the earpiece and feed this heartfelt answer to Amelia as I stare at this lovely cerulean-colored wall right in front of me. And this champagne glass in my hand that I’ve just picked up.

But wouldn’t you know it, this book looks fascinating.

I pull out a copy. Swivel around. Take a sip of my champagne.

Amelia, from her seat just ahead, shifts a meaningful glance my way. “Oh. You know, I love that question.”

I flip the page.

Take another sip.

“I’d have to say . . . ,” Amelia begins, fluttering her exceedingly long lashes toward the ceiling as though thinking deeply.

Another painfully long span of seconds elapses, and then I look up.

Our eyes meet.

I smile.

Flip the page.

And raise my champagne glass her way.

Chapter 12

“Bryony, you cannot go around trying to irritate Amelia. She’s irritated enough by life as it is.”

“All I did was get lost in a book on this ‘luxury’ getaway I was promised. What is possibly wrong with reading? I’m an author. It’s a universal vice of ours. We can’t withstand the temptation of good literature.”

“It was a nonfiction book about reducing the corporate tax rate from 21 to 15 percent.”

It took one look at Amelia’s screwed-up face onstage, then one look to me standing there in the corner with a smile on my face, before Jack was grabbing my hand and steering me out the door.

It’s a welcome change.

The view of the ocean opposite the strip of rainbow-colored shops is perfection in a shot. Tanned children racing along piping-hot white sand, giggling with boogie boards in hand. The sea a bright blue-green aquarium of colors. My face immediately warmed by the sun and the wet, salty sea air.

Even Jack’s hand, still holding on to mine, seems to fit inside this moment.

The pressure and intentionality as he holds it clasped protectively, all while eyeing the inside of the store in distraction.

I clasp my champagne glass and fight a little rise in my stomach. I find myself unwilling to be the first to let go.

What is wrong with me?

What in the been-single-a-sum-total-of-four-hours is wrong with me?

That’s a very good question to ask.

Later.