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She shoots me a look of death. “There’s a window just above your head.” Her whisper is harsh. “He’s in there talking to Violet, who is stalling for me, hopefully. So I can’t just go walking over to your car. He’ll see me.” She gazes at me, and I’m back in high school again, thinking her brown eyes have the most incredible glints of gold but knowing that if I were to say something like that to her, she might not respond well. Would she get mad? Would she ask what’s wrong with me? Would she pretend I never said it?
It’s that unknown that has settled Sophie into the “nothing more than a friend” zone. That and our completely opposite life goals.
“Who’s Violet?” I ask. “Is she in on this secret plot?”
“On paper, she’s my part-time assistant, but in reality, she’s my steady, way more organized right-hand man—er, woman. She just got back from a cross-country tour of a bunch of independent bookstores.”
“Huh, she sounds great.” I glance up at the window and can’t see what’s going on through the glass. “I’ve got you,” I whisper, placing my finger on my lips and beginning to walk backwards. “And besides, even if you stood up to your full height, he still wouldn’t see you.” I gesture with my hand to indicate her short stature.
Before she can get after me for teasing her, I spin around and stride back to my car. I’d sort of forgotten how Sophie makes everything fun, but it’s unintentional. Like she’s trying to tell the whole world that she’s all good, but the world just keeps pointing out to her that nothing about her is normal at all. She needs to stop trying to convince it she is.
And sidenote: she’s “not normal” in the best way possible. Really. It’s the best compliment I could give anyone.
I find myself smiling as I get in my car and back up, and my grin gets even bigger as I drive out onto the street and turn in to where the mobile library sits—the city and county offices parking lot. I zoom around it to pick her up.
She steps towards the car and casts one last glance behind her before throwing the passenger door open and sliding inside.
It’s not until I’m pulling out of the parking lot that I look in the rearview mirror and notice an older guy clanging down the metal ramp of the mobile library. He’s got a look of confusion and anger, so I speed up, the tires squealing as I peel out on Main.
Speeding tickets and disapproving online comments be darned. I’m on a quest for Sophie. And nothing’s going to stop me from helping her.
Chapter 3
Sophie
Oliver’s car isnice.I feel like my bargain skirt is defiling it just by sitting in it. Especially since my skirt probably has tar dust from the blacktop I so gracefully fell on earlier.
His car is the kind with tan leather everything. I knew he loved cars and spent incredible amounts of money on them. I’d never been inside one, though. He always flies in for our standing not-a-date every August. But now, according to the grapevine, he’s here to stay for awhile.
I have to focus on the car again, because I’m trying not to stare at him. He’s a vision. A toned, dark-haired, brown-eyed vision in his untucked, lavender oxford shirt, slim tan pants cut above the ankle, and off-white suede derby shoes.
This day is not turning out like I thought it would. First, I had to hide from Mr. Wallis behind the mobile library I’ve affectionately named Scott. And now I’m in a car with Oliver and my feelings are ping ponging around, giving me a headache.
Or, I might have a headache because Oliver is taking the turns on the empty road at an irresponsible speed. I start to worry about the cop situation, but I really shouldn’t. We have a county police force, and the station’s ten miles away. At any given moment, you’ve got a good chance that the two patrol cars are in a different town from the one you’re in, something that people in the know take advantage of.
Thoughts of what I could and should say to Oliver unsettle me. But one thing is sure: I’m not going to bring up the fact that he missed our last scheduled closing day thingamajig what-have-you. I’m pretending like it didn’t happen—that it was a non-issue.
“Why is the big bus named Scott again?” Oliver asks.
“Scott’s a very literary name. It’s perfect for him. Orson Scott Card, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Walter Scott, Scott O’Dell…need I go on?”
“I get it now,” he says with a chuckle.
His pause pricks my curiosity. I know he’s about to dive into something serious.
“Soph, I wanted to apologize about last August.” Oliver glances at me before training his gaze back on the road.
Well, that was fast.
His words hang in the air, and I’m suddenly uncomfortable. I can’t let on that his ditching me really bugged.
Of course, I was sad he didn’t come. It hurt. And I promised myself that I’d never let Oliver Tate hurt me. I can’t care enough to have it hurt.
For the most part, that promise to myself has worked out fine.
I change the subject. “Thank you for saving my bacon back there. Seriously. The dude would not leave.”
It’s his turn to change the subject. “Two things.”
