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I love my son’s playful nature. It makes a wide smile stretch over my face.
“And milk,” he adds. “Lots and lots of milk.”
“Okay, my baby.”
It’s quiet in the store, and Vincent is sitting on my lap while I read him a story.
When the doorbell jingles, I glance up and watch as a woman who seems to be in her early thirties pushes a stroller into the store.
She has beautiful dark brown hair, olive skin, and light brown eyes.
She shoots a friendly smile my way, then asks, “Do you sell children’s books?”
“Yes.” I put Vincent down on his feet and nudge him toward his corner. “Go play a little while Mommy helps the lady.”
Her eyes follow my son, then she asks, “He’s adorable. How old is he?”
“Three.” I walk closer to her and peek into the stroller. “Awww…” I give her a questioning look. “A boy?”
“Yes. He’s just turned one.”
“I miss the days Vincent used to sleep like that,” I chuckle. Gesturing toward the shelves with children's stories, I say, “This way.”
“Do you have any recommendations? Which books does your son enjoy?”
Again a chuckle escapes me. “He’s obsessed withMighty Pup Power. Nothing else will do.” I take a copy off the shelf and hand it to her.
I glance at Vincent to make sure he’s okay.
“We have a dog, so I’m sure Roman will love this one.” Her gaze browses over the other books. “This one looks good. Until he understands, he’ll be able to look at the pictures of the animals.”
“That’s a good pick.”
The customer chooses three more books before we head to the counter.
“I’ve walked past this bookstore a hundred times and always wanted to come inside.” Our eyes lock, then she adds, “Oh, I’m Rosalie Vetrov.”
Her last name makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“I’m Everleigh.” I hesitate for a moment, then ask, “Are you Russian?”
She shakes her head. “No, my husband is. I’m Sicilian.”
My heart sets off at a crazy pace, and I glance at Vincent again.
Chill, woman. Not all Russians are bad.
Nodding, I ring up her books and pack them in a paper bag. “Will that be all?”
“Yes.” She hands me the cash, then blurts out, “I don’t know any other mommies. Well, mommies with children close to Roman’s age. Do you want to have coffee sometime?”
Not wanting to offend her by declining to her face, I say, “Leave your number, and I’ll give you a call.”
She writes it down on a sticky note, then smiles happily at me. “It will be nice to hang out with someone who has a child.”
It would.
“I’ll call soon.”
