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“It might be, but everything is fixable.” She gasps and turns back around, her dress fanning out and flapping around her legs. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Holly Hope, resident smut expert within these walls. And by expert, I mean I’ve self-published a few books and think I know what I’m talking about.”
“Seriously? That’s incredible. How many books do you have out? What are they? How long have you been publishing? What made you take the plunge?” The questions come out rapidly, and Holly just smiles and listens, likely waiting for me to take a breath. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never actually talked to an author before.”
“I will tell you everything.” She pauses for dramatic effect and bats her eyelashes at me. “If you come to book club two weeks from Thursday.”
“Book club?”
“Only the coolest one in town. It’s usually me and a few horny housewives looking for an escape from their lame husbands. We’re called the Meet Cutes, and, well, I think we’re pretty cute.”
I laugh while her eyes sparkle. She knows she’s got me, but there’s only one hitch—I’m already fake dating Foster, and I don’t want to leave Mason so much during the week.
“I don’t know.” I glance down, dragging my boot back and forth on the carpet. “It sounds like a blast, but I’m a single parent and—”
“Say no more.” She claps her hands and I jump a bit. “Marcy brings her kids sometimes. Bring the little guy or girl. The more the merrier. Which means you’ll needTemptby Melanie Harlow, along with whatever sports deliciousness we find you. Oh, and I forgot to mention that not only do we stock the most and best romance around, but we also support indie authors.”
“Which is such a relief. I love having an actual book, and if I can get the immediate gratification from buying at a bookstore, that’s even better.”
Holly gives me another smile and leads me past another few aisles, these ones labeled ‘religious’ before we get to the romance section, which is literally the entire back half of the store.
The irony of its placement so close to the bible and prayer journals isn’t lost on me.
“The far left is the clean romance. I tend to stay clear of that aisle, but some people love it. Someone with a great sense of humor put all the BDSM next, and then on the far right is PNR and fantasy romance, with everything else in between.”
“This place is fantastic.” I run my fingers along the spines as I make my way down one of the aisles. Looks like this one is motorcycle, mafia, and rock star.
“Thanks. I’ll let you wander a bit, but I’ll be at the register if you need me.” She turns to leave but spins around real quick, her eyebrows practically in her hairline. “Oh, nice turtleneck. Even if it is unseasonably warm.”
And with that, she winks, does a little dance that looks a lot like air humping, and skips back to the front of the store.
I knew it.
Fucking turtleneck.
It really doesn’t cover up much of anything. The physical mark, yes, but the stigma that comes with wearing this particular item of clothing when it’s not cold out?
Not one bit.
It only enhances it so that everyone and their mom know what I did last night.
Letting out a frustrated groan in front of the badass men of motorcycle romance, I whip out my phone and pull up Foster’s contact. There’s a good chance they’ve already landed in Dallas for their game tonight, and even if he didn’t, I know he’ll see it when they land.
Me: Were you aware that you left a little something on my neck last night?
British Strumpet: Is that where my crab rangoon went?
Me: I am not amused.
British Strumpet: My wallet? No, I have that. I know it’s not my keys. I’m out of ideas.
Me: You’re so charming.
British Strumpet: I’m British, it’s what we do.
Me: I’m talking about the HUGE hickey you left on my neck you wanker.
British Strumpet: Hey, that’s my word. Also, that doesn’t sound like me at all. I definitely wouldn’t do anything like that.
Me: Well, someone left this big red mark on my neck, and it sure wasn’t the curling iron.
