Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
I call Clem.
* * *
There aren’t enough pages in my Notes, Complaints, and Existential Crises notebook for all the possible outcomes involved in telling Clem I’m banging her brother. But Elena would be proud of me for doing this—listing all the different things that might happen when I see my friend. That is, if I ever tell Elena about the fake dating. But first, I focus on Clem. I write out the outcomes on the bus ride home from the arena. It helps with my worry that things might go wrong when I talk to her.
I think I know how to smooth things over though.
Before I catch the next bus, I pop into a store in the Marina that has everything, find what I need, then hop onto a bus out of town.
Once I arrive in downtown Cozy Valley, I feel ready. I let the fresh air center me and yes, the cozy vibe centers me too. I pass Whiskers and Kisses where the store’s tuxedo cat bats lazily at a stuffed mouse from the top floor of his tower. Would Thor like a mouse like that? I’m tempted to pop in and grab a toy, but I have to remind myself I’m not here for Lake. I’m here for his sister.
Up ahead, The Meet Cute comes into view. That’s the bookstore Clementine opened a couple of years ago. A brick wall along the side of the store is painted neon pink, showing off the spines of popular books from the last few years—like Top-Notch Boyfriend, The Twelve Hate Dates of Christmas, When You Kiss Me Like This, and other fan favorites.
I open the door as Clem calls out a question to a group of a dozen or so avid readers, draped across the couch in the shape of lips and several pink folding chairs.
“And for the grand prize and the chance to call yourself the Trivia Smut Queen—what did Lucy from Bangable proclaim was the wildest place she’d ever banged her enemy?”
A woman with tattoos of books dancing down the bronze skin of her arm darts up a hand. “The hot-air balloon as it flew over the food festival in Lucky Falls.”
Clementine picks up a silver bell from the counter and rings it. “All hail Mariana Valdez.”
Mariana stands and takes a bow while the others clap and cheer for her.
Clementine grabs a sparkly tiara off the counter, waving to me when she spots me. She’s wearing a shirt with an illustration of a cat reading a book on it, and the words Books. Because Murder is Wrong.
She bestows the tiara on Mariana. After that, I busy myself checking out her sticker collection and hoping the confession goes as well as I believe it can.
Once the trivia club has filtered out, Clem shuts the door and locks it, leaving just me and her little dog, Fern, all frosty-faced, who glances up from her heated bed behind the counter and gives me a look that seems to translate as: Did you bring me a biscuit? If not, I don’t care about you.
“I don’t have a biscuit, Fern.”
The cutie sighs the most dramatic dog sigh of all time, then curls into a ball on her bed, looking the other way.
“You’re dead to her,” Clem says, as she joins her little critter behind the counter.
“I’ll do better next time,” I say to the pup then glance around the shop, hoping to ease into the convo. “Looks like trivia night was great.”
“We have a blast here.” There’s a wistful note in her voice, and I wonder if it’s because she always wanted to open a shop in the city, not a little town.
She shakes it off, then pins me with a curious stare as she sweeps around the counter and starts folding the chairs away. “But I suspect you’re not here about trivia.”
There’s a tease in her voice, but also a no-bullshit edge to her tone. Which is one of the reasons I adore her. She doesn’t like to beat around the bush.
“I’m not,” I say, and her words from earlier repeat in my head. I always support you. Even if it involves my weird brother.
But other words do too. Lake’s words: She likes to give me gag gifts. Last year for my birthday she sent me my face on a potato.
I dip my hand into my bag. Some conversations just need lubrication.
I hand her a gift wrapped in pink paper.
Arching a brow, she sets down the folding chair in her hand and takes it. “Gifts are the way to my black heart.”
“It’s not black,” I chide.
“No, but my soul might be.” She rips it open, then laughs. She slides the fluffy pink earmuffs onto her head, covering her ears with the gift I picked up at a shop in the Marina. “Go ahead now and tell me you’re”—she stops to gag—“banging my brother.”