Best Laid Plans

by Lauren Blakely

  I reach around him. He swipes at me again. “I think you might be bad for business if you keep that up.”

  He stretches, raises his furry chin, and shoots me a look of utter disdain before jumping off the shelves and sauntering haughtily away, tail high in the air.

  I grab the novel. Tucking it under my arm, I make a beeline for the magazines and crossword puzzles, snagging a new book.

  I peer around the corner, and Arden’s back at the counter, head bent to study the computer screen, and damn does she look good today. Her blonde hair is piled high in one of those crazy buns. Whoever designed those buns should be given an award. On the surface, they shouldn’t be attractive. It’s a fucking bun, after all. But there’s just something about that swept-up-and-still-a-little-messy look that revs my engine. Maybe it’s the way that hairdo highlights her gorgeous cheekbones and accentuates lips that I know must be sinfully soft.

  Or maybe it’s that every little thing this woman does seems to get me going. That smile, her mind, her laughter . . . Truth is, I was thinking about Arden more than I was thinking about Darla on that date the other night. Thinking what it would take to have Arden sitting across from me at a restaurant as more than a buddy.

  I head straight for the counter, plunking down the books with a thump. “You were busy, so Henry recommended these. Oh wait, he actually tried to attack me.”

  Arden startles then looks up and smiles. “Do you need me to get out my first aid kit and take care of all those terrible cat scratches he left on your arms?” She peers down. “Oh wait. You don’t have any.”

  “I’m just saying. He’s vicious.”

  “He’s sweet.”

  I laugh. “We might have different definitions of the word ‘sweet.’”

  “We might indeed.” She arches an eyebrow then slides me the books. “Your money’s no good here. Take them.”

  I sigh. “No way. You can’t do that.”

  She nods and gives a satisfied grin. “I can, and I will.”

  “Honestly, I’d like to pay. This one is for my mom and the other’s for me.”

  Her smile shifts to one of curiosity. “Your mom’s the one you buy the mysteries for?”

  “You notice what I buy?”

  “I do indeed. Maybe I’m a book spy.”

  “Well, 007, you’ve discovered my secret. I shop for my mom. She devours mysteries. She got that from her dad—my pops loves mysteries too. The more hard-boiled the better.”

  “The hard-boiled ones are a hoot. As for your mom, if she likes wine, tell her this Mary Higgins Clark pairs deliciously with a Bordeaux, since those wines are a little mysterious.”

  “I’ll pass that on. She’ll get a kick out of that.”

  “That’s nice that you buy so many books for your mom.”

  “I told you that day at Silver Phoenix Lake—nice is a good thing.” I take out my wallet, fish around for a couple twenties, and set them on the counter.

  “Gabe. Let me give these books to you.”

  I lean closer, shaking my head. “Let me support your business.”

  She screws up the corner of her lips, sighs, then holds up a finger. “Be right back.”

  A minute later she returns with a new hardcover. Glancing from side to side, she slides it over to me. “It’s the new Sandra Brown. It doesn’t come out for a few more days. Give it to your mom as a gift.”

  She gives me the change from the bills, and I thank her. “She’ll love it.”

  And she does, indeed, when I head over for dinner and give the book to my mom.

  “You win the prize for my best son ever,” she says to me as she clutches the book.

  “Was there anyone else in competition?” I tease, since I’m her only son.

  “Hmm. You’re right. But I still like you a whole helluva lot.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you.” She winks as she settles into the couch with her book then shoots me a genuine, “Thank you so much.”

  Later that night, there’s a new game of Words with Friends waiting for me, and the first word Arden has played is CURIOUS.

  I want to read something into it, but mostly I’m damn impressed she led with a seven-letter word.

  When my shift starts the next morning, we’re called to a small warehouse fire, and handling that blaze is a hell of a lot easier than trying to use a word game to decipher a woman.

  7

  Arden

  Men make no sense to me.

  Like right now.

  I’m on my turf, in my zone, recommending the right wine to go with the right book all night long like I’m a rock star at this, and I am. The whole time this guy keeps staring at me.

  He’s been here the last few nights, so I think he’s a local.

  He’s handsome, with a square jaw and close-cropped brown hair. He wears a white dress shirt and a checkered tie, so I guess he’s in banking or law.

  Every night he buys a book, drums his fingers on the counter, and smiles before he asks me how I’m doing.

  Every night I smile back and say, “Great.”

  Fine, I know I’m not like my friend Perri, smooth and cool when handling men. But she’s a cop, and I’m a—well, I’m the good girl in the crew. Virgin till twenty. Serious boyfriend in college. Another serious boyfriend in my mid-twenties. Then David.

  That’s it. I’ve been with three guys. I’ve never played the pickup game. I’ve never even been on a dating app. And I’ve never made a move on a customer, even though Mr. Businessman has great taste. Last night he purchased Kristen Hannah’s The Nightingale. The evening before it was Hidden Figures. Each time he asked me if I liked the books. Of course, I told him.

  I mean, really.

  They’d have to take away my license as a bookstore proprietor if I didn’t adore those works.

  Tonight, Mr. Businessman makes his way to the counter, a paperback tucked under his arm. There’s a gray tie knotted on the cover, and I blink. Is that book what I think it is?

  “Hey. How are you?” He grins at me a little sheepishly.

  “Terrific. How are you?”

  “Fantastic.” He sets down the book, taps his finger against the knot, and meets my gaze. “I’ve heard so much about this book, I figured I should probably read it.” He lowers his voice, glances from side to side. “But don’t tell the guys at my office, ’kay?”

  I bring my finger to my lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  He smiles as I ring the purchase up. “Great. I figure it can’t hurt to know what women want these days.”

  He’s buying the book to better understand the fairer sex? Okay, I’m down with that, I suppose. “Smart man. A lot of women definitely still like reading this book.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love it, then.” He clears his throat and fixes his eyes straight on me. “Do you like it?” The words come out staccato. Like he truly wants to know what I think of Fifty Shades of Grey.

  And this is why men make no sense.

  Is he asking if I like being tied up? Does he want to know if I enjoyed the story? Is he asking my advice so he knows if it’s a good gift for his girlfriend?

  I answer truthfully. “It’s a fun book. I can see why it was so popular.”

  My reply earns another smile. “Good to know.”

  I tuck the receipt between the pages. “Here you go.”

  He doesn’t leave. “So, I’ve noticed you’re here all the time. I trust this is your store?”

  “My baby. Opened it five years ago. Love it, especially the book clubs.”

  “I like what you do here. It’s more than just books that have people coming in.”

  Does he mean me? Or . . . “Well, I do work with book clubs all around the county and set up book and wine events—pairing wine with different books.”

  “That’s awesome. Do you like wine?”

  “Like a hammer loves a nail,” I say, then I want to smack myself because does that sound like the worst come-on ever?

 
But he doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s a great wine bar down the street if you ever want to . . .”

  I straighten my spine.

  Holy smokes. He’s asking me out. The handsome guy is asking me out.

  Men do make some sense.

  This computes.

  But before I can say, Why, yes, I’d love to, I catch a final glimpse of the tie on the cover. Nerves grab hold of my throat. They tighten their grip, strangling words, choking them to silence. What if this guy is like David? What if he wants some version of a woman I don’t know how to play? What if he’s looking for a naughty girl rather than a nice one?

  The nice girl in me answers, “Oh, that wine bar is great. You should totally go there.”

  I skedaddle to help another customer, nearly tripping over Clare, who gives me an imperious yellow-eyed stare for deigning to go near her.

  “I froze. I completely froze. Like that dumb statue.” I gesture to the dude riding the bronze horse as Perri and I walk through the town square later that night.

  “That is a seriously dumb statue. Want to topple it later?” she asks as she yanks her auburn hair into a tighter ponytail.

  “Yes, let’s deface public property. That’ll help me get over my complete deer-in-the-headlights moment.” I sigh and look at my good friend. “It gets better, right?”

  She pats my shoulder. “I want to be totally sympathetic and tell you it’s cool, no worries. But it’s not going to get better unless you take a leap and get back in the game. That guy did a number on you.”

  I picture David’s cutting words as he dropped me. “I know. And did I tell you that David is now engaged to the woman he started seeing after me? I can’t even hate him for being a cad. He just didn’t want me. He wanted her. They came into the store a week ago, and she was wearing a big fat ring.”

  Perri gives me a green-eyed sideways glance. “Sweetie, I’m not talking about David.”

  I stop at the edge of the square, furrowing my brow. “Who are you talking about, then?”

  “Phillipe.”

  “Phillipe?”

  She makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “Phillipe. French guy you dated for four years when he was living here. The sexy winemaker.”

  “I know who Phillipe is. I’m just not understanding the comparison.”

  “One-position Phillipe. He loved missionary more than anything in the world. Except his grapes.”

  I laugh. “Well, yeah. He was absolutement in love with his grapes.”

  “More important, Phillipe is kind of all you knew when it came to men. So when David said you were too sweet, it’s only because you don’t know if you like spicy.”

  We turn the corner, and I arch a brow. “That’s the reason I froze in my store? Because I don’t know if I like spicy sex?”

  She nods. “Phillipe was pure vanilla.”

  For four years, Phillipe and I dated. He was wonderful—sweet and kind and a massive fan of being on top. In his defense, he was quite skilled at missionary, and we enjoyed the hell out of our horizontal time together. He reached all the spots he was supposed to reach including those starting with a G. But we never really ventured beyond that comfort zone, and the few times I asked, he never cared to mix it up.

  I missed him only a little bit when he returned to Europe a few years ago to take over his family’s vineyard in the Provence region.

  “Your theory is I simply don’t know what I might like in bed?” We wind our way toward our favorite bar.

  “Exactly. Phillipe vastly preferred one way, and with David, you never had the chance to explore.”

  Wow. How did I not realize it before? But her assessment is dead-on. Because of Phillipe I assumed most men liked sex the same way—on top, guy in charge, setting the pace. “I’ve only played it safe,” I say, a little sad.

  “You’ve only played it safe because it’s all you’ve experienced. I’m not saying you have to take crazy risks. And there’s nothing wrong with vanilla . . . unless you want chocolate or strawberry. Do you even know if you want chocolate or strawberry?”

  I picture the artisan ice cream shop down the street. “Honestly, I kind of like that birthday cake with blueberry flavor at Salt and Straw.”

  Perri holds up her hands. “My point exactly. Have you ever had birthday cake with blueberry flavor in bed?”

  I blink. “What would that even be?”

  “Not missionary, that’s all I know.”

  I laugh. “That’s for sure. I tried to get Phillipe to mix it up. One time, I thought I would go all sexy on him. I took the initiative and dressed in come-hither lingerie—a white demi-cup bra and high-cut panties, and I climbed on top of him in bed when he was reading.”

  “And what did the missionary man do?”

  I snort at the memory. “He said something sexy in French, and I was sure I was finally going to learn what it was like to be thrown down on the bed, to be yanked up on all fours. Hell, to have my ass smacked, and my hair pulled, and my panties ripped off.”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  I shake my head as I recall what went down. “Instead, he tossed his book to the side, slid me underneath him, and made love to me, whispering sweet nothings in French the whole time.”

  “Boring. But the French dirty talk is a nice touch, so we can’t dock him all the points.”

  “True. He deserves a minor commendation for his ability to say swoony things, like je te veux tellement. But being taken would have been better, right?”

  “Mais oui.” Perri laughs. “I can absolutely confirm that being taken is often better than being talked to. Give me a strong, silent, tatted-up man on a motorcycle who throws me down on the couch, and all he has to do is grunt, Fuck. Now.”

  “A caveman is all you require?”

  She shrugs in a way that conveys her answer. “Pretty much.”

  I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”

  “And what about you? What do you want?”

  I let her question marinate, trying to figure out what I’m missing. “I don’t need to be Christian Grey’s plaything, and I don’t want to be tied up in the Red Room. But that’s what stung about David’s parting words. He never gave me the chance.” I flash back to that day at Silver Phoenix Lake, but further too, back to all the days with him. “Though, honestly, I never took the chance either. I never asked for anything else. And I honestly wouldn’t mind finding out if other positions are how they make them out to be in books.”

  “I bet Mr. Businessman would have helped you find out.”

  I sigh. “Now I’ll never know what Mr. Businessman really wants, or if he likes birthday cake sex.”

  She nudges me. “Also, seriously. How did you miss the signs? The dude bought Hidden Figures and The Nightingale and asked your opinion on them, and you didn’t realize he was asking you out?”

  I offer up a lame, “He might have been buying them for a girlfriend.”

  “And tonight you learned he was buying them as conversational lubricant to talk to you.”

  We reach our favorite bar and head inside, where I order a white wine and she asks for a beer.

  She taps the bar. “I think it’s time to find out if you have a little Ana in you.”

  “Whoa. I am not submissive.”

  “Hello! I meant the sexy elevator kiss. It’s time to find out if you’d like being kissed hard in an elevator.”

  My body tingles with the memory of that scene. The way he grabbed her wrists. Pinned them above her head. He took her kiss. “Yes, please. I’ll have one hot, sexy elevator kiss to go. Trouble is, how do I get it? You’re bold enough to ask out guys you like. How do you do it?”

  “I’m naturally a big mouth. But bear in mind, there’s a flip side. A lot of guys think because I have a badge and a uniform, that means I want to lock them up and throw away the key, or be smacked with a billy club.”

  “But don’t you just love all that?”

  “I like other things, and I often ask for it. My p
oint is this.” She tips her beer bottle in my direction. “The next time a hottie in your bookstore asks you out, say yes. It’s that simple.”

  But is it? Is it truly that simple? I wish I could feel as comfortable with other guys as I do with Gabe. Maybe then I’d have a clue what they want.

  8

  Arden

  Bullseye.

  Look at that. I can rock a dartboard like nobody’s business. It’s so much easier than saying yes to a date with a guy and having my sexual prowess, or lack thereof, labeled as vanilla once again.

  “And on that note, looks like I’m in line to take home the winner’s trophy tonight,” I say to Gabe.

  He arches a brow. “Oh, do we have trophies? Where are they? I didn’t see any when I walked in.” He scans the tables and the bar in the game room at the Pin-Up Lanes.

  “I ordered some. They’re on the way over.” I strut past him, feeling confident about my chances to win at darts tonight. I tap my index finger to my tongue and touch the air, making a sizzling sound. I don’t freeze up at darts. Nice girls can play darts, evidently.

  He chuckles, shaking his head. “East, you’ve got another think coming.”

  I straighten my spine as he raises his arm. “Wait. You said ‘think.’”

  “I did. Now, I know this is your trick to try to knock me off my game, so move along, honey. Move along.” He tries to shoo me away from him.

  “No one says that. It’s like intents and purposes. Almost everyone thinks the phrase is ‘intensive purposes’ when it’s intents and purposes.”

  “Or stock and trade when it’s stock-in-trade. Don’t be so surprised that I understand etymology. I’ve got beauty and brains.” He taps his skull, flashing me an over-the-top smile.

  “I just hardly ever hear anyone say You’ve got another think coming.”

  “I can say another thing coming if you want,” he says in a sexy drawl.

  One I like more than I should.

  I laugh to dispel the effects I’m feeling from the elixir of pleasure that is his hot, husky voice. “You know how I feel about words. I like when they’re used correctly.”