“Pshaw. That was my hot flash talking. You know how I adore you.”
“Yeah, I do actually.” And Quinn did. Natalie didn’t have children of her own so she mothered everyone. Unlike Quinn’s own mom who was far more interested in a quixotic quest for the Fountain of Youth with her endless mud baths, antioxidant facials, and plastic surgery appointments down in Palm Springs. “Hey, real quick, before you get your jiggy back on, want to hear this week’s mystery order?”
“Always.”
“Let me see.” Quinn peered into the cardboard box beside her feet. “We have The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, The Sound and the Fury, Frankenstein, and Fun with Whittling.”
“Fun with Whittling?” Natalie hooted. “Oh, jeez. Eclectic as always.”
“Next week might be Duct Tape Art or Tapophilia 101.”
“Tapo-what?”
“You know, gravestone rubbings—with charcoal and butcher paper?” Quinn shook her head—useless information took up way too much grey matter real estate. “Anyway, we should try and predict the order.”
“Ha, we’ll lose.”
“No doubt.” The snow fell in earnest now, making it hard to see across Brightwater’s Main Street. She had to leave soon to hit the post office before checking in on Dad. “Hey, I should get moving. Have yourself a great night.”
“Of course, I’ll be in when we open again, day after tomorrow. Black Friday means green for us. And thank you, sweetie. I won’t do anything that you wouldn’t do.”
Quinn laughed. Mostly because she didn’t do anything. Hadn’t in well over a year. She hung up the phone and grabbed a marker and packing tape. Sealing the package shut, she printed across the top in big black letters:
W. Kane
405 Castle Falls Lane
Brightwater, California 96104
“W. Kane.” She tapped the initials. The mysterious W. Kane started emailing orders right after she moved to town and landed this job. A Novel Experience didn’t have a digital store; instead this person just sent requests and monthly checks. Each week was the same, a curtly worded request for four or five wildly different titles to be posted to the Castle Falls address. Last week was Virginia Woolf, Shakespeare, Dr. Seuss, and Nora Roberts. Odd combo and strange in the day and age of online shopping but, hey—no complaints if someone wanted to buy local.
Quinn shrugged into her white puffy coat, the marshmallow-looking one that seemed like overkill when she purchased it during a SoCal summer sale but now appeared totally sensible. Brightwater’s autumn had been mild but as soon as mid-November struck it was as if the weather gods were issued a green light to let the elements rip. Temperatures plummeted and everyone in the checkout line at the Save-U-More suddenly discussed nothing but snowfall predictions and when the ski hills would open.
Quinn struggled with walking in a straight line while chewing gum, so the idea of careening down a steep slope on a pair of glorified sticks held little appeal. Plus, as much as she was happy to leave her sunny beach life behind, she and winter weren’t going to be besties.
Grabbing the store keys, she hefted the book box under her arm and flicked off the light. The shop had been quiet today, most of autumn actually, except for the Chicklits, the book club that met Wednesday mornings. But Natalie reassured her that things would pick up once the snow bunnies flocked to the mountains. Summer was also apparently boom time with all the newcomers flooding in to build their second, third, or even fourth vacation homes.
“Enjoy the quiet, it won’t last,” Natalie often said from her ancient red velvet chair that was perpetually stationed by the window, nose buried in a book. Sometimes Quinn wondered if Natalie had used her parents’ inheritance to start a bookshop in order to justify reading all day. But then it did seem like a perfectly reasonable way to spend both money and time.
She stepped outside, lungs constricting from the sharp cold. Holy heck, if it wasn’t even December yet, what would official winter-winter feel like?
Scary thought.
Fumbling with the big brass door key, she finally got it locked and, turning, collided with a body, a big, hard masculine body. The type that could play NFL football and was topped by the sort of face often seen on a Disney hero, unquestionably handsome but almost cartoonish with an oversized jaw and deep canyon chin cleft. Thick blond hair protruded from underneath his navy blue “Brightwater Volunteer Firefighter” ball cap.
“Garret, what a . . . surprise.”
“A good one, I hope?” Garret King’s toothy grin matched the snow. No. Scratch that, those stark white incisors outshined the swirling flakes. Some women no doubt swooned for his type, but that muscleman build, stylishly disheveled hair, and sexy-and-I-know-it attitude left her decidedly unintoxicated.
“Cold day.” She checked her coat’s zipper and steered the subject straight to Boring Town. Garret was the exact type of person she’d hoped to leave behind in Hollywood. Figured that she’d flee across half the state to a small mountain town only to collide with someone whose ego rivaled any multimillion-dollar overentitled action star’s.
“We’re going to The Dirty Shame,” he said, blocking her path.
“We?”
“You. Me. A few IPAs.” Sunglasses were required to withstand those luminescent chompers.
She tried not to let her annoyance show. “Sounds like a blast, but I’m pretty busy.”
“Busy?” His smile dimmed to a lower watt. “With what?” As if how could anything be more important than fawning over him?
Good grief, she’d rather watch paint dry in one hundred percent relative humidity.
“I have to run to the post office to send off this package to a customer and then duck around to check on my dad.”
“Oh yeah, how is Crazy ol’ Higsby these days?” Lenny, Garret’s friend, sprouted like a surprise mushroom behind his best buddy’s elbow. His snub nose was a mottled red and dripped before he could wipe it on his fleece sleeve. “Did you know the last time I saw him out and about was at the Save-U-More? He growled at someone in the meat department. Growled! As if the butcher would give him a bone or something.”
Even Garret looked shocked.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” Quinn snapped, any patience evaporating in a flash. “My father is a sick man. That’s not justifiable cause for mocking him.”
“Of course not.” Garret sent Lenny reeling with a sharp elbow jab. “Hey, don’t be an asshole, dude,” he ordered.
“Yeah, well, have a good evening, fellas.” When would icicles be hanging from the rafters? She’d love to clock the pair of them over their thick insensitive heads.
“Wait, hold up, I’ll walk with you,” Garret said, brushing past Lenny. “Keep you safe.”
She fought a hard eye roll while regarding the empty sidewalk. “Oh, spare me,” she muttered.
“What was that?” Garret leaned in. “You want my phone number? No need to mumble. You only have to ask.”
“Thanks but that won’t be necessary.” She sidestepped him and dodged Lenny, increasing her pace. Throughout the autumn, she had put out every polite “no way in hell” signal that she could think of. Did she emit some sort of jerk-magnet pheromone? Douche Bag No. 5?
Because if she was a superhero, her power would be attracting assholes.
“What about tonight?” Garret asked, hot on her heels. “Need help keeping extra warm?”
“I’ll be reading.” Was there enough snow on the ground to make a snowball? Throw it in his face?
He frowned. “A book?”
“Yep, one with an actual cover and pages. Taking a break from my e-reader for the week.” She tapped her glasses. “Eye strain, the struggle is real.”
“Wouldn’t you rather—”
“Oh look, here we are!” Quinn chirped, booking it toward the historic post office. She tightened her grip on the box in her arms. Garret did a double-take at the address and frowned.