The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(26)

Since I left Copper Valley for my dash to New York and then Miami, the temperature’s dropped thirty degrees and all the leaves have departed the city. My hands are tucked in my coat pockets, with the book under my elbow, and I keep my head down against the wind. But when we walk into Penny for Your Thoughts, warmth seeps from my nose through my chest.

There’s a lively discussion already going on upstairs in the loft.

“Book club only tonight,” Ingrid’s assistant, Yasmin, tells me from behind the cash register. She’s a few years older than I am—maybe more—and she squints her brown eyes at me like she knows what I’m up to.

I wave my copy of Nora Dawn’s How To Train Your Vampire at her, then nod and head toward the curved staircase at the back of the room.

“I don’t like this,” Giselle murmurs as we climb to the top.

“I’m in disguise,” I mutter back. “It’s fine.”

The loft comes into view.

Mostly.

I can’t see it all through the mass of people. “Holy shit.”

“Like I said. Don’t like this. Stay close to the stairs.”

There must be fifty women here. Probably more. Folding chairs are lined in rows, couches and easy chairs shoved between short, overflowing, multi-colored bookshelves and end tables along the wall, all the perfect height for holding a plate of cookies and a cup of coffee. The coffee counter is built into the wall to my right, staffed tonight by two women, one with short green hair and the other nodding her head in time with music I can barely hear flowing over the sound of voices. Plates of cookies are at the ready, and several of the women are sipping out of sparkly gold coffee tumblers.

I think I’m actually in love with Ingrid’s bookstore. This place is brimming with potential.

Not for the store—the store itself is perfect exactly the way it is.

But for me.

For me to disappear into my head and let the atmosphere pull a few songs out.

“Close to the stairs,” Giselle repeats as I step toward the crowd.

“Grabbing a seat,” I tell her. “Less conspicuous.”

“You’re one of four men here. You’re conspicuous.”

I don’t see Ingrid, but I do spot the author. I recognize her from her website—smiling, curly-haired, talking with her hands while she chats with a small group of women up front, but not the same way Ingrid does.

Ingrid’s hand gestures are more precise, almost as if she’s learned to be intentional with her subconscious movements, or like she’s had experience with sign language.

“Dude. What the fuck are you dressed in?” Luca Rossi, center fielder for the Fireballs, squints at me from his perch against the exposed brick wall. Next to him is Brooks Elliott, third baseman for Tripp and Lila’s team.

Unlike Rossi and his apparent horror at my presence, Elliott’s smirking. He nods to me. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I got your back.”

Rossi’s horror turns to a scowl as he narrows his eyes at his teammate. “Pick him over me, and we’ll see what happens to you tomorrow when we’re batting off the rooftops.”

That would be weird if Tripp hadn’t told me they were spending the week all over the city and the mountains, shooting promo videos for next season.

Elliott’s still unfazed. “Here for book club?”

A familiar laugh reaches my ears.

Mackenzie. His Fireballs-obsessed, baseball-loving wife.

Huh. Didn’t know she liked book clubs, but there she is, with Beck’s wife, Sarah, beside her. Those two are inseparable, and I’m busted if she spots me.

I hitch my shoulders higher, hoping my collar covers more of my face, and scan the loft again. Still no Ingrid. I would’ve thought she’d be with the author. “Yeah,” I say absently. “Can you pretend you don’t know me? I’m incognito.”

“Why are you here?” Rossi is seriously glowering now.

Oh, shit.

Is he dating Ingrid?

She would’ve told me if she was dating someone. Wouldn’t she?

I lift my book. “Just wanted to participate.”

“If you interrupt Henri’s big night, I will squish you like a bug. You don’t need the attention, asshole.”

Giselle’s lips twitch.

“Who’s Henry?” I whisper.

Elliott chokes on his own spit.

“Levi Wilson, what are you doing here?” Mackenzie demands beside me.

Dammit.

“I’m Barry,” I blurt in a deep voice. “People make that mistake all the time.”

Sarah chokes on a laugh behind the blond spitfire who spent this past baseball season giving my brother more indigestion than she’ll ever know.

“Barry Staniglow,” I add as a few other women shoot curious looks my way. “I work in insurance. Like paranormal romances. Good books.”

“What kind of insurance?” Sarah asks.

“Don’t even think of hitting on Henri,” Rossi growls. “She’s taken, asswipe.”

“Oh my god, you have a crush on Nora Dawn?” Mackenzie whispers.

“What? No! I—”

“What are you doing here?”

“Busted,” Giselle murmurs.

And there she is.