“You could try,” I joke quietly. “Maybe get me a card or something.”
She laughs tearily, pulls one hand free to swipe at her eyes. “At some point, I have to know I can do things on my own. Not with Brendan’s help, not with yours. And you need to make room in your life for other things, other people to matter.”
I swallow hard. “No one will ever matter like you do, Lib.”
“No one will ever matter like you do either,” she whispers. “Other than my bagel guy.”
I wrap my arms around her neck and drag her into a hug. “Please tell me the next time you find out you have an illness or vitamin deficiency,” I say into her wispy pink-blond hair. “Even if all I’m allowed to do is say, That sucks. And then ship six cartons of supplements to your house.”
“Deal.” She draws back, her smile shifting into a wince. “There’s something else you should know.”
Here it is, I think, what she’s been keeping from me.
She takes a deep breath.
“I eat meat.”
My instant reaction is to jump off the bed like she’s just told me she personally slaughtered a baby cow here moments ago and drank blood straight from its veins.
“I know!” she cries through her hands. “It started when I was pregnant with Tala! Because of the anemia. And, frankly, this bizarre and constant craving for Whoppers.”
“Ew!” I say.
“I stopped as soon as she was born!” Libby says. “But then I started again when I found out about Number Three, and I didn’t think a couple weeks off would make a difference for my levels, but I wasn’t being conscientious enough about filling in the gaps. So. Whoops! Or . . . whops?”
“I can’t believe you tricked me into being a vegetarian, for a decade, then caved for a Whopper!”
“How dare you,” she says. “Whoppers are amazing.”
“Okay, you’re getting too good at lying.”
She guffaws. “Okay, not amazing, but the heart wants what it wants.”
“Your heart needs therapy.”
“Can we get some on the way home?” She pushes off the bed. “Whoppers, not therapy.”
“Whoppers? Plural?”
“They have veggie burgers, you know,” she says. “And we’re already so close to Asheville, and there’s a BK there.”
I stare at her. “So not only did you just call it ‘BK’ without a hint of irony, but you’re telling me you checked where the nearest one is.”
“My sister taught me to be prepared. I scouted it out when Sally and I went to hang fliers for the Blue Moon Ball.”
“That’s not ‘prepared,’ ” I say. “It’s disturbed.” At her laugh, I cave. “Whoppers it is.”
“Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Libby gives me a look. “Congratulations. You went a full twelve hours.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re in charge of yourself. Who even cares if you’re up for it? Not me.”
She grins and jogs her huge purple purse. “I’ve got beef jerky in here, and almonds, and one of those peanut butter dipping cup things. Plus I’ll be with Gertie and Sally and Amaya. You go get those edits done so you can take time off next week and party.” Her phone buzzes, and she checks it. “Gertie’s here. Looks like it might rain — want us to drop you at the bookstore?”
Charlie agreed to take over Sally’s shift so she could focus on next weekend’s ball, which means we’ll be hammering out the final notes in the shop. We’d planned to finish reading pages last night, but that was shot to hell when Libby passed out, so we’ll be finishing our reads today too.
“Why not.”
Gertie’s muddy hatchback sits at the bottom of the hill, even more covered in bumper stickers than when she drove us home from the salon, and she’s burning incense on her dashboard. I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from momming her about how dangerous this is, not that she’d even hear it over the dissonant industrial music she’s blasting.
The thrumming mostly drowns out the rumble of thunder approaching as I climb out in front of Goode’s. Overhead, frothy black clouds are clumping up, and there’s a bite to the air as the hatchback peels away from the curb.
Through the yellowy glare on the windowpanes, I spot Charlie reshelving at the nearest bookcase, cast in reds and golds.
His lips and jaw are shadowed to perfection, his dark hair haloed by the soft light. At the sight of him, my stomach flips and something blooms like a time-lapse flower behind my rib cage. Now that I’m here, so close to the end of this book, this edit, this trip, a not-small part of me wants to turn and run.
But then he catches sight of me, and his mouth splits into a full, sensual Charlie smile, and my fear blows away, like dust swept from a book jacket.
He opens the door, leaning out as the first fat droplets of rain splat the cobblestones. “You ready to finish this, Stephens?”
“Ready.” It’s true and a lie. Does anyone ever want to finish a good book?
The back office looks irresistibly cozy in the gloom of the storm, the scarred mahogany desk covered in papers and knickknacks but meticulously arranged in Charlie’s signature style. Beside the lumpy sofa, the fireplace’s mantel and its three-deep rows of family pictures are freshly dusted, and vacuum streaks are still visible on the antique rugs. The bulky air-conditioning unit hangs silent in the window, put out of work by the false-autumn cold snap.
He moves a stack of hardcovers off the sofa, then crosses the room to take the chair behind the desk. His expression seems to tease, See? I’m perfectly harmless over here.
Except nothing about him looks harmless to me. He looks like a Swiss Army knife. A man with six different means to undo me.
This Charlie, for making you spill your secrets.
This one for making you laugh.
This one can turn you on.
This is the one who will convince you you’re capable of anything.
Here is the Charlie who will pull you into his lap to form your human barricade at a hospital.
And the one with the power to take you apart brick by brick.
“How’s Libby?” he asks.
“Well,” I say, “she has a beef jerky purse now.”
“So I guess you’re saying it’s a mixed bag.”
My head tips back, a veritable chortle leaping out of me. “What is it with this town and wordplay?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.
“Settle a bet for me and Libby.” I hunch forward over my laptop, the screen folding half closed.
“That’s not really fair to Libby,” Charlie says. “I’m always biased toward a shark.”
Warmth fills my chest, but I press on, undeterred, a hammerhead to my core. “Is Spaaaahhh meant to be said as a sigh or a scream?”
Charlie runs a hand over his eyes as he laughs. “Well, I hate to muddy things even further for you, but back when I lived here, it was called G Spa. So I guess the pronunciation depends on how you think an orgasm sounds.”
“You’re making this up,” I say.
“My imagination is good,” he says, “but not that good.”
“What goes on in those hallowed halls,” I marvel, “and is it legal?”
“Honestly,” Charlie says, “I think it was just a fortuitous mistake. The owner’s name is Gladys Gladbury, so I think that was the reference she was aiming for.”