“No, I just … really wanted to thank you. I’m never the hero with gifts for her. I always manage to fu—uh, screw it up. This is the first time I’ve ever nailed it, and it’s a big deal. So … yeah. Thank you.”
It’s a good thing I’m definitely not tearing up because the room is already somehow getting blurry. “You are very, very welcome,” I say, and God, I hate that I can’t tell Jasmine. Her secret mushball heart would melt. “I have plenty more recommendations when you run out.”
“You’re wasting your time behind this counter,” he says. “You should be in sales.”
Well, there’s no great way to admit I lost that position when my mom made me bail, and now I have to watch this random college kid named Greg suck at it. He literally goes entire days without recommending a single author who isn’t an old white guy. I’d tell Beth how much he sucks, but I’m pretty sure she knows, and it makes me feel bad. She must’ve been really desperate to have hired him. “Feel free to tell Beth I deserve a raise,” I say instead. He laughs as he leaves, but somehow, I think he’ll do it.
The rest of the morning continues like normal, but that interaction stays with me for a while, including during my break, when I treat myself to a white hot mocha. (I’m allowed one fancy drink every half a shift, I swear.) I’d been completely stunned by Jasmine’s reading choices over the summer, assuming she was one of those chic ice princesses who always seemed to be reading Anna Karenina, but the way she told it, her mom got her started with Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi and Maus by Art Spiegelman, and a love of reading words mixed with visuals fell into place.
She lent me book after book, though I only got through maybe a quarter of what she did. I had no idea speed-reading was a real thing until I watched her devour four books in a single day. We spent a lot of time at the Kill Devil Hills Library, enjoying the air conditioning and browsing the artful displays. Jasmine was horrified to learn I’d given up a job at a bookstore to come to OBX. Apparently, she’d dreamed of being a librarian as a kid, something she confided she’d never told anyone else. Web design and photography were more her thing now, but she said even if she kept up with them in college, in reality, she was probably gonna go to business school and do something boring.
I really, really hoped she wouldn’t.
“Hey, Larissa.” I look up to see Beth standing in front of the counter, a pile of flyers in her hands. “Can you hang these up around the store, and take a few to hang up around town?”
“Sure.” I take a bunch from her and skim the paper. “Holy crap, you’re getting Clementine Walker to the store?”
“You’ve read her stuff?”
“Every single book.” I look at the date. It’s a Sunday, two days after Homecoming, but no matter how exhausted I am, I will absolutely be here working.
Jasmine’s bookish thing is graphic novels; mine are smutty romances with a heavy dose of humor, and Clementine Walker is the best of the best. She’s the author who first made me want to try my hand at writing my own. Jasmine read a few of her books in exchange for my reading her favorites, and let’s just say they went over very well.
Goddammit, it would be really fun to bring her to this.
And yet, the thought of her doesn’t conjure her presence. Instead, it conjures Chase Harding, who comes ambling over to the counter, flashing Beth a smile that could definitely lighten the darkest of souls. “Hey,” I say, and I can’t help smiling too, even though I have no idea what he’s doing here. In the past I would’ve frozen up at a surprise Chase sighting, but now I feel like I could chat with him over hot mocha lattes for an hour. “Beth and I were just talking about my favorite romance author coming to town.” I hold up a flyer. “Please tell me you’re a closet fan.”
“Oh, nothing closeted about my fandom for…” He squints at the flyer. “Clementine? Isn’t that a fruit?”
“A fruit and a killer name for a killer author.” I take a flyer and pin it on the bulletin board, glad I wore my good-butt jeans to work today. I feel his eyes on my backside like laser beams. “So, what’s up? You here for a drink? I make a mean chai latte.”
“Sure, I’ll take one of those,” he says, leaning against the counter and pulling out his wallet. The bell over the front door tinkles, and Beth scurries off to welcome the new customer, since we both know Greg won’t. “I also wanted to thank you for driving me home last night, and make sure you got back okay.”
I make change from his ten and note with satisfaction that he leaves a tip in the jar. “Oh, I was actually murdered last night, but doesn’t my ghost look fantastic?”
He grins. “It sure does. Which brings me to the other reason I’m here—to see if you’re free tonight. I thought it might be nice to hang out without two hundred of our closest friends.”
For a moment, as I pour from the pitcher of chai I prepared that morning into a hot cup, all I can think is that I need a Q-tip to clean out my ears. Because I could swear Chase Harding just strolled into my place of employment and asked me on a date. Like it was no big deal. Like he would enjoy hanging out and possibly buying me a burger or holding hands throughout a movie.
It’s a very weird thing when you have imagined something happening for God knows how many years and then it … does.
A ridiculous part of me wants him to take it
