Book Lovers(56)

Libby says, “I think it’s through there.” We step over and around the tiny gymnasts and turn through another set of doors into a spacious room filled with echoing chatter and folding chairs. To my relief, no one is wearing a leotard, so probably we’re not here for a pregnant gymnastics class, which definitely strikes me as something Libby would sign us up for.

I spot Sally near the front, grabbing an older blond man’s shoulder as she laughs (and, I’m pretty sure, sucks on a vape pen). A few rows behind her are the hip Mug + Shot barista with the septum ring and Amaya, Charlie’s Pretty Bartender Ex.

Libby pulls me into the last row, where we take two seats just as someone pounds a gavel at the front of the room.

There’s a stage there, but the podium sits on the ground, level with the chairs. The woman behind it has the largest, reddest hair I’ve ever seen, the only lights on in the room shining on her like a diffused spotlight.

“Let’s get started, people!” she barks, and the crowd quiets as piano music seeps down from upstairs.

I lean into Libby, hissing, “Did you bring me to a witch trial?”

“The first item we’re considering,” the redhead says, “is a complaint against the business at 1480 Main Street, currently known as Mug and Shot.”

“Wait,” I say. “Are we—”

Libby shushes me just as the barista leaps out of her seat, spinning to a balding man a few seats over. “We’re not changing our name again, Dave!”

“It sounds,” Dave booms, “like a place for vagabonds and criminals!”

“You weren’t happy with Bean to Be Wild—”

“It’s a weak pun,” Dave reasons.

“You threw a fit when we were Some Like It Hot.”

“It’s practically pornographic!”

The redhead pounds the gavel. Amaya pulls the barista back into her seat. “We’ll put it to a vote. All in favor of renaming Mug and Shot.” A few hands go up, Dave’s included. She pounds the gavel again. “Motion dismissed.”

“There is absolutely no way any of this holds up in a court of law,” I whisper, amazed.

“What’d I miss?”

I jump in my seat as Charlie slides into the chair beside me. “Not much. ‘Dave’ simply filed a motion to rename every Peter in town to something less pornographic.”

“Did anyone cry yet?” Charlie asks.

“People cry?” I whisper.

He drops his mouth beside my ear. “Next time try not to look so excited at the thought of misery. It’ll help you blend in better.”

“Considering we’re in the hecklers-only section of the crowd, I’m not all that worried about blending in,” I whisper back. “What are you doing here?”

“My civic duty.”

I fix him with a look.

“There’s a vote my mom’s excited about. I’m nothing but a hand in the air. I’m glad I came now though—I finished the new pages. I’ve got notes.”

I spin toward him, the end of my nose nearly brushing his in the dark. “Already?”

“I think we should try starting the book at Nadine’s accident,” he whispers.

I laugh. Several people in the row in front of us glare at me. Libby smacks me in the boob, and I smile apologetically. When our audience returns to watching the new argument at the front of the room, between a man and woman whose combined age must top two hundred, I face Charlie again, who smirks. “Guess you needed help blending in after all.”

“The accident’s fifty pages in,” I hiss back. “We lose all context.”

“I don’t think we do.” He shakes his head. “I’d like to at least suggest it to Dusty and see what she thinks.”

I shake my head. “She’ll think you hate the first fifty pages of the one hundred she’s sent you.”

“You know how badly I wanted this book,” he says, “just based on those first ten. I simply want it to be its best version, same as you. And Dusty. By the way, what did you think about the cat?”

I worry at my lip and get a shot of pure, undiluted satisfaction at the way he watches the action. I let the pause go longer than is strictly natural. “I’m worried it feels too similar to the dog in Once.”

Charlie blinks. I see the moment he finds his place in the conversation again. “My thoughts exactly.”

“We’d have to see where she plans to take it,” I say.

“We just mention the similarity and let her make the call,” he agrees.

The redhead pounds her gavel, but the old man and woman at the front keep shouting at each other for twenty more seconds. When she finally gets them to stop, they—no joke—nod, take each other’s hands, and head back to their seats together. “This is like something out of Macbeth,” I marvel.

“You should see how holiday event planning goes,” he says. “It’s a bloodbath. Best day of the year.”

I smother a laugh with the back of my hand. His face twitches, and my heart flutters at the extraordinarily pleased look on his face. In my mind I hear him saying, You’re way more fun this way.

I turn away before the look can sink any deeper into my bloodstream.

“What did you make of Nadine’s motivations?” he whispers, managing to make the words sound innately sexual. Four different points on my body start tingling.