AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Luckily, another customer calls Lazy away and I’m free to take my time checking out my sister’s books. The blurbs are intriguing and well-written. I have a sinking feeling I’ve been underestimating my sister.
Chapter Six
Daisy
Iglance longingly at the twelve books I got from the bookstore as I wait for the clock to roll over to three forty-five PM. It won’t do to show up more than fifteen minutes early.
I’d had every intention of paying for the books myself, but Lazy insisted I put them on Noah’s tab.
Apparently, Noah is one of Lazy’s best customers, and Lazy doesn’t dare do anything to upset him. I’ll pay Noah back as soon as I see him.
I stocked up on more romance books from the bestseller lists and spent all morning reading. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I have been a snob and unfairly eschewing romance for far too long. The writing is beautiful, the stories riveting, and the characters amazingly real and well-drawn.
I’ll never give up on my first love of literary fiction, but I foresee a lot more romance books mixed into my reading rotation.
Goldy’s book is next if I can work up the nerve.
I’m currently parked in front of a brick ranch style home with a red and white sign over the door reading Lovemore Publishing with hearts in place of the o’s.
At the end of a long dirt drive about ten miles outside of town, the publishing house looks like a regular home, except for the sign and the five cars parked in the front yard.
My phone dings with a text and I grab it, grateful for any distraction. It’s a text from Noah:Are you reading in bed?
A laugh bursts from me. How does he always seem to know just what to say when I need it most? I type out a quick answer:All morning. Thank you again for the books.
Noah:Wish I was there with you.
I wish he was too, though I imagine we’d do a lot more than read books. My body warms at the thought, lust eradicating my nerves. If we were a real couple, I’d tell him exactly what I’m thinking, but that’s hardly safe. Instead, I respond:I read alone, Noah.
I turn off my phone and drop it back into my bag, hating myself more than a little for not playing along. I’ve never been a daredevil, a party girl, or the fun one, but Noah makes me feel like maybe I could be.
“What am I doing here?” I stare down the building before me, and grab the door handle, but can’t make myself pull it.
Before I make my escape, the front door swings open and a white woman, who looks to be in her thirties, her pink hair in a pixie cut, grins. “You must be Daisy Weston. We’re all so excited to meet you. Please come on in.”
I step toward the house, feeling the way Zephyr must have felt when she had to walk into our barn for the first time. When I called Lovemore an hour ago, I’d hoped I could pretend to be interested in working here, tell them about my previous experience, and maybe stop by for a tour of their operation. The plan was to get in good with them, get the information I need, and move on with my life.
Except they’d been thrilled at the prospect of my looking for a job with them and had insisted I stop by right away. The energy alone of their president, Joy Kern, was enough to make me want to put the phone down and flee for my life.
I’m used to writers and editors who seem always partly asleep, as though half their brain is still in the world they were just reading or writing about.
Super high energy people always make me feel like I’m moving through molasses in comparison.
“Thank you.” I force a smile and slide into professional mode, polite and open, without being too friendly or over sharing. It’s the only way I know how to get through situations outside my comfort zone.
She offers her hand. “Delia O'Brien. I handle formatting and design.”
I shake her hand and follow her inside to a small sitting area. Books and notebooks cover the coffee table, as well as a few empty, or partially empty, mugs.
“Please excuse the mess,” she says. “We just finished up a meeting in here a few minutes ago. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Joy.”
She leads me down a hall, past a kitchen, and into a sunny, bright office. Seated behind a desk cluttered with papers and two computer monitors sits a woman intent on her work.
She looks up, her brown eyes bright, her smile wide. Her brown hair is short and curly and the arms revealed by her cap-sleeved, yellow top are sculpted with well-defined muscle. Her skin is a lovely shade of umber that shimmers in the sunlight streaming in through the window.
She stands and holds out a hand to me. “Miss Weston, it’s lovely to meet you.”
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly.” I shake her hand.
