The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(50)

“I will have absolutely zero respect for the man if he does that to you.”

“Or maybe I’ll go get the girls from school and run into a new single dad of one kid who’s attractive and attentive and whose kid needs siblings and we’ll hit it off and I’ll be the one gradually letting go of my fling.”

The seven wrappers now in front of me suggest I’m dealing with my delusions by eating them.

I lean in closer and drop my voice even more. “You know that thing where nothing goes as planned when you have three kids and a job?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m terrified of where this is going, Ing.”

“Every time he’s been around in a disaster, he’s helped out.”

“You need to drop this man before you get attached.”

I probably do. “I’ve never had a partner. I don’t need a partner. But having a friend who sometimes washes my dishes and happens to be really good at making me remember I’m also a woman with needs is making me feel…alive isn’t the right word, but…”

“More?” she asks softly.

“Yes! More. Like I’m re-discovering a part of myself. And I’m never alone—ever—but I feel less lonely now.”

She tilts her chin down.

“Ah-ah, don’t take offense. You know I love you. You know I’d jump in front of a train for you. But your boys keep you as busy as my life keeps me, and there are certain things you cannot do for me.”

Her lips twitch in amusement. “If he hurts you—”

“Portia, it’s inevitable. And I’m okay with that. We’re all works in progress, and I can either hide and never hurt, or I can experience life, hurt sometimes, grow, and move on.”

“You’ve been going through your self-help shelves, haven’t you?”

“There are so many good books right now. I was just listening to this new one I heard about in my small bookstore owners group on social media.”

“Hey, Ingrid?” Brittany calls from the doorway. “Hudson has a crayon in his ear. I don’t think it’s hurting anything, but you should probably come look just in case you need to tell a doctor about it later.”

I sigh.

Portia shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “He’ll grow out of it.”

“I know. It’s all a phase.”

We spend the rest of the day running errands and hitting the local rec center for Zoe’s gymnastics class and Hudson’s little ninjas class, which seems like a terrible idea for an already rambunctious little boy, but it gets his energy out.

Some.

All three kids need new shoes, and Piper needs bigger skates, and Hudson needs a new lunch box since he taught Skippy that his always has peanut butter smears in it.

Let’s just say I declared the lunchbox a federal disaster zone.

When we get home, we go in through the bookstore. My feet are tired, my ears are worn out, and I’m dragging six bags from our shopping trip.

I spot Holly grabbing a box of mugs in back, which means the coffee bar must’ve been popular today. Foot traffic’s up, and I’m glad we have extra holiday help starting Monday. And Yasmin seems flustered by the customer at the register.

“Go see if there are any new books you want to put on your wish lists,” I tell Zoe and Piper when Yasmin waves me over.

I keep a tight grip on Hudson’s hand through one of my bags and paste a smile on my face.

The customer is tall and lanky with a thick brown beard and a manbun, and I can’t tell if he’s closer to twenty-five or forty-five, though the lack of gray suggests he’s closer to twenty-five. Or possibly in the middle.

Yasmin’s shifting from foot to foot. “Ingrid, do we have any books on wave mechanics?”

“The surfing kind, or the science kind?”

“Both,” the customer answers.

There’s something unnerving about his brown eyes. They’re both kind and probing at the same time, which is a special skill to have in a gaze, and I find myself tightening my grip on Hudson’s hand.

“Unfortunately, no, but we can special order anything.” I step behind the counter, drop my bags, grab my emergency tablet for when I need Hudson occupied, and point my son to a small bean bag chair I keep back here for him.

“Thank you,” Yasmin whispers.

She’s blushing.

I glance between her and the customer. He keeps a straight face, but I see Yasmin fanning herself as she ducks toward the hot mess merchandise section.

We don’t get a lot of male customers as a general rule. We carry a little bit of everything, but sell more mysteries, women’s fiction, kids’ books, and popular self-help than anything else—all books bought more by women than men. We don’t stock games and puzzles and toys because we’re trying to compensate for low book sales. We keep them because women make impulse purchases for their families. And the coffee shop in the reading loft, the weekly book club, the twice-weekly storytime for the little kids, the Hot Mess Moms Club shirts, mugs, and bags, and even the way we identify the different sections of the store—that’s all about girl, I have been there, and I will take care of you when you need a break.

It’s worked well. So well, in fact, that we’re picking up more male clients who want to escape the same way the neighborhood moms do, though this one today is unique.