Much Ado About You(22)

“Well, that was weird,” I mumbled.

Looking at the cupcakes, I decided to take that break after all.

A few minutes later I was in the apartment, preparing a sandwich, and eyeing the delicious cupcakes the whole time. Arranging them on a platter, I snapped a photo and posted it on my Instagram. My friends were enjoying my shots of England. I captioned this one with “A gift from a friendly neighbor.”

Then, like an impatient kid, I took a bite out of one instead of waiting until I’d eaten my sandwich.

The sponge cake melted in my mouth, sharp, flavorful strawberry jam oozing onto my tongue from the center. The buttercream frosting was perfect. Not too sweet, light and creamy.

It was the best freaking cupcake I’d ever had in my life!

I wondered if Caroline worked at the bakery in town.

Finishing the cupcake, forcing myself not to eat another, I put them back into the Tupperware box to keep them fresh. “Note to self,” I murmured just as I was about to sit down to my sandwich, “ask Roane about his cousin.”

It was as if I’d conjured him.

A loud banging had me rushing to the window. Peering down onto the street below, I saw a familiar figure at the front door. Shadow stood at his side.

Heart rate increasing, I hurried out of the apartment and down to the bookstore, regretting the faster pace almost immediately. Light-headed, I gripped the store door for balance and yanked it open.

Roane pushed his way inside as he brushed off the hood of his raincoat. Shadow followed, and as I closed the door and locked it, the dog shook his body and sprayed everything in his vicinity with rainwater.

Me included.

He was forgiven when he trotted over to me and jumped up to say hello. Despite my light-headedness, which was seriously worsened by a huge dog putting his wet paws on my shoulders, I stumbled, laughing and jerking my chin away to avoid his kisses.

“Shadow, down,” Roane said, not sounding amused.

“It’s fine,” I promised, petting the Dane just before he heeded Roane’s orders. I had two muddy marks on my shoulders from his paws, and Roane’s expression clearly said that it wasn’t fine.

“It’ll come out,” I said, waving off his concern. “What brings you back so soon?”

He held up two paper bags that had rain splatter on them. “Lunch from the bakery. I wanted to make sure you were eating.”

“I was actually just about to sit down to a sandwich I’d made,” I told him as I took one of the bags from him and peered inside. The smell of chicken hit me hard, and my belly rumbled. “But screw my crappy ham and cheese sandwich, this will do much better.”

Roane chuckled and made to move past the counter, but my laptop caught his attention. Shooting me a curious look, he dipped his head toward the screen. “What’s this? Do you write?”

I made a face. “No, Nosey. I’m a freelance editor.”

He frowned at me. “You never mentioned that last night.”

“It’s about the only thing I didn’t mention.” I made a face, remembering all the personal stuff I’d blurted at The Anchor.

With a commiserating smile, Roane led me into the back hallway. Shadow trotted at our heels. “So,” Roane said as he kicked off his muddy Wellington boots at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you edit fiction books for a publisher?”

“No, I edit books for indie authors. People who self-publish.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a thing now, isn’t it.”

I grinned as I followed him up to the apartment. “It’s been a thing for a while now, Farmer Robson.”

“And you make money from this?” He glanced over his shoulder at me as he walked into the kitchen.

“Yeah. I did it to supplement my income. Chicago is an expensive place to live.”

“What made you decide to be an editor then?”

The question made me halt in the doorway. No one had ever asked me that question. That couldn’t be right. I thought on it and decided it was right. Not even Greer had asked me. I guessed, however, my best friend just assumed she already knew the answer: I loved words. “I didn’t know I wanted to be an editor until I started working for the film mag. I just knew I wanted to be in publishing, to be surrounded by the written word. I can’t explain my love for words. Not well, anyway. They’re like a golden sunset across a tranquil sea, viewed from a run-down shack. They can turn even the most ordinary of feelings or thoughts into poetry.”

Roane smiled at me.

I shrugged, smiling back. “When I started working at the magazine, I realized an editor got to have a part in creating something interesting and meaningful. After I started taking on fiction writers as clients, I knew I loved that more than the magazine. Not only do I get to read books before everyone else, I get to read some pretty great books and help tighten the plots, make the characters richer, guide the author a little. It’s fun for a book nerd. That’s why I edit.”

Roane considered me with a soft look on his face that was becoming familiar. “Good. Everyone should love what they do for a living.”

“Yeah. Except I no longer do it for a living. And book editing on the side merely supplemented my income.”

The farmer was quiet for a second or two as we pulled out plates and put the roast chicken sandwiches onto them.

“Coffee?”