The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(19)
“Hold on, why are you talking about gaming? I thought you were doing your superhero secret identity thing. Is that over? Are you out?” Andy looked honestly alarmed. “You made sure those were all in the public domain, right? We could get the pants sued off us.” He held up a hand. “Sorry, you could get the pants sued off you. Remember to tell the lawyers I had nothing to do with it.”
Paul snorted. “Your loyalty is touching. I’m still anonymous. She just noticed the books on my shelf. You know, in my profile picture. She must have zoomed in and read the titles.”
“Buddy, you are playing a dangerous game with those people. They’re worse than gamers. They have no lives. Everything becomes about the online interaction. You talk to them enough and they feel like they own you.”
He had to agree, just a little. Watching the comment threads explode from one question about an obscure book to thousands of passionate arguments pro and con, he had to wonder if these people had jobs. Paul wasn’t willing to sacrifice hours of his time to argue about whether Kidnapped or Treasure Island was Robert Louis Stevenson’s best work and he was an above-average fan of the man.
“I’ll be careful. It’s just email,” Paul said. He pulled the laptop closer.
“Uh huh. That’s what they all say.”
“Who says? This isn’t going to end up like Stephen King’s Misery, with me tied to a bed by some crazed fan.”
“I sure hope not. And I meant people who meet their spouses online. My cousin fell in love with this woman from New Zealand and he kept saying it was just a few emails. He lives on the other side of the planet now and they’ve got four kids.”
“That’s not happening here. She’s a bookstore owner from Natchitoches.” Paul shrugged. “I can’t think of anybody less likely to be a candidate for my affections than someone who lives in that gator swamp.”
Andy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me. Please tell me you’re kidding. Your secret identity is corresponding with someone from your real-life home town?”
“It’s nothing really. I only heard of the woman a few hours ago. It doesn’t mean anything so keep your shirt on. I’m not planning a big Creole wedding so I can settle down in the bayou and leave you in charge of everything.”
Andy didn’t laugh. “If you say so.” He looked like as if wanted to say more, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He turned back to his reports.
Paul clicked on the attachment, already deciding not to respond to the picture. Whatever it was, it would have to wait, probably indefinitely.
The photo that popped up wasn’t Alice or the store. It was a picture of a bookshelf. It wasn’t the tidy organized line of leather bound volumes he was expecting. It was a very personal picture, as personal as it could get between bookish types. His face creased with a grin. She was letting him see what no one else saw: the jumble of best-loved books, side by side like adopted siblings. They had no connection, except for the fact the same person loved them all.
He leaned closer, cocking his head to read the titles. His smile widened. He never would have guessed, not in a million years. Alexander Pope essays next to Louisa May Alcott next to John Green next to Jane Austen’s Emma next to some big science fiction tome with a dragon on the spine next to something called Fat Vampire. He let out a chuckle when he recognized Jane Eyre between Freakonomics and The Big Book of Southern Cakes. A whole row of Alan Bradley mysteries hogged the second shelf but they were sandwiched between a bookbinding manual and the letters of St. Teresa of Avila.
“I really hope that goofy smile isn’t for something she sent.” Andy spoke into his papers, a scowl on his face.
Paul forced himself to sit back and look uninterested. “Just a picture of books. That’s all.”
Andy sent him a long look. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Only the truth, my friend.” Paul kept his tone offhand. He should close the picture and wait until later, but he might not get another chance anytime soon. They had meetings all afternoon. He tried to seem uninterested but it was hard to casually crane his neck to read the titles.
Then he felt his smile fade. A leather bound book, the gold lettering clearly visible, was almost lost between The Wind in the Willows and a picture book on the periodic table of elements. What were the chances Alice would have the same little book of poetry? He knew that first edition was rare, it had taken him ages to track it down. But not only did she have it, it was in a treasured spot on the messy shelf of most-beloved books.
He stood up and walked to the window. His mind was turning the possibilities over and over. She could have searched out a copy before contacting him and staged the picture. She was the one who asked about his shelf first, after all. She’s the one who brought up Elizabeth Barrett Browning and implied that it led to the whole reason she owned the store. He paced up and down in front of the window, wishing he could be more suspicious, and then wished he could be more trusting because he truly wanted to believe in a world of such wonderful coincidences.
Paul turned back to the window, staring down at the fields below. Time was slipping away and all he’d done was flirt with someone he’d never met. He had a book to scan and real work to do. He should forget all about Alice and her books, never respond to another message. That would be the logical step, especially for a famous billionaire pursued by all kinds of unsavory people and who had that small issue of a secret online identity.