by Katie Cross
In truth, I thought their gleaming brown tops graced with fruit compotes were gorgeous. I snatched one with a grin. Where was he taking the non-oddballs? And why all the secrecy around the baked goods?
With a wink, he pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, then grabbed a coffee mug. My heart raced like a hummingbird when he leaned against the table and just looked at me. “You look beautiful today,” he finally said. “Like always.”
“Oh.” Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Thanks.”
“Mark and Justin plan to offer their tribute of fire to the gods of paper and snow tonight, if you want to come.” He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “I plan on making homemade hot chocolate.”
“I’ll be there.”
Images of chanting, fire, and snow flashed through my mind. I had little doubt Mark would make it dramatic—probably with copious amounts of lighter fluid. It fit his rampant energy.
Regardless, it was the perfect culmination to finishing all the paperwork.
JJ lounged back against the sink. “That was a huge project, Lizbeth. Well done.”
“Thanks.”
The end of the huge project left a sizeable gap in my plans for the week. Further grilling of Mark had given me no guidance on what to do next. I’d probably start with the website. He’d been using social media and one web page that looked like a dinosaur had created it.
While I was excited to work with design again, I couldn’t wait to revisit my Pinnable corkboard. Not only because I’d been trying to ignore the fact that I hadn’t heard back on the job despite emailing them to ask for an update, but because there was something steadying about making plans.
“I started a new romance book after our date last night,” he said. “One that came on my mom’s recommendation.”
“Oh?”
My curiosity was piqued even as I relished the words our date. Romance was one thing. Plot structure was another. Every dissection of a romance novel gave me a physical thrill.
“It’s about pirates,” he continued.
I gasped. “Please tell me it’s His Pirate Princess.”
“Yes.”
“With Johanna?”
“Yes.”
I faked a swoon. “So good, JJ! What do you think?”
His chuckle was a low, cavernous rumble. He hadn’t shaved, so glints of stubble illuminated his cheeks in the right light, like a fractured diamond. I wanted to run my fingers across it.
“I think it’s oddly suspicious that the same woman keeps getting mixed up in situations where she needs saving.”
I burst out laughing.
“How does the hero always happen to be there?” He looked at me. “Seriously? How do you explain that?”
“It’s great plotting, that’s what.”
He rolled his eyes, then kept going. “And how do these women get into these dramatic situations? I mean, Johanna was kidnapped by one pirate. Okay, I can get behind that. But that was the bad pirate. Then a supposedly good pirate—which isn’t a thing—rescues her from the first one. In the meantime, the military guy who’s a good guy and genuinely wants to help her not live a life of crime is kind of the loser. It’s a love square!”
My laughter deepened.
“Then what about all these first kisses?” he continued without stopping. “What does toe-curling even mean? I—”
“It’s supposed to be that way!” I said as I stopped to catch my breath. He did the same. I could feel his skepticism.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s what every reader wants to happen. The woman is supposed to be in trouble and is supposed to be saved. That’s when the romance happens. Otherwise it’s just a really boring exposition on life as a pirate.”
He stared at the wall across from us. “Oh.”
“This isn’t about reality, JJ. This is about the experience of romance. It doesn’t matter if what happens is closely aligned with reality. In fact, the less real, the better.”
“So you agree that romance isn’t realistic?”
I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again. He grinned a little too roguishly for my liking. In fact, I couldn’t turn away even though I wanted to. Because he’d trapped me. Really and truly trapped me.
“Uh-huh,” he sang. “Point for JJ.”
With an annoyed sigh, I muttered, “Point for JJ.”
I’d never live that one down. Now we were uneven again.
“Mark left this morning to meet with the bank early.” JJ half-yawned and ran a hand through his hair. “Apparently the City of Pineville is putting up a stink about the spa. Anyway, he told me I had strict instructions to take you into Jackson City and buy you books.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Your books were all burned, right?”
“I think so. I haven’t gone back yet.” I cleared my throat. “Maverick said most of the attic was unsalvageable.”
“Right. So Mark, as a thank-you for your work so far, wants me to buy you more books.”
“But he’s paying me a ridiculous amount per hour.”
JJ shrugged. “Mark may not be great with details, but he appreciates people. I think you should take the offer.”
Several seconds passed before I recognized this for what it was: a gift from a friend. The Bailey boys might be the two most frustrating men on the planet, for different reasons, but they were my friends now.
I nodded slowly. “Well, that sounds great.”
JJ held out a hand. “Good. I know just the place.”
Bells clanged in my head as we drove up the canyon.
The twists and turns made me sick to my stomach, even on a beautiful, clear day like this. At least I hadn’t had to drive it alone yet. That would happen in the summer, with no ice and safe roads.
JJ distracted me with a story about a time he and Mark had cruised around South America and Mark got in a fight at a bar—which led to them meeting the mysterious and infamous Justin. All the while, my mind spun.
Did Mark really come up with this idea?
Was JJ letting him have the credit?
Mark did have a thoughtful side that often surprised me, but this kind of specificity had JJ written all over it.
So why did I feel so hesitant?
With great effort, I forced those thoughts to the back of my mind and just enjoyed the time with him. He’d grabbed my arm and pulled me close the moment I climbed into the Zombie Mobile. Even if we didn’t speak, I liked being close to him. Romance books had that right—point for romance.
Twenty minutes later, JJ announced, “Here it is.”
We pulled into the parking lot of a used bookstore I’d frequented so many times I knew most of the workers by name. Inside, the smell of old paper and ink overwhelmed me. Books rested on every available surface. A spot on the counter had been cleared so customers could pay, but towers of books ringed either side.
The curator, a middle-aged man named Leroy, waved. “Haven’t seen you in a while!” he called to me.
“Been a bit busy.”
“Heard about the car.” He grimaced. “Glad you’re okay. Got lots of new romance titles in. You know where they are!”
With another wave, I strode farther into the shop. Instinct took me to the back-left corner, where women in busty dresses and men with half-lidded eyes populated almost every cover. JJ trailed behind.
Halfway there, I stopped. For some reason, my feet wouldn’t move. My throat felt itchy, and a rush of heat spread through my body. My palms turned sweaty. Books awaited me back there. Romance books. Books that were once my best friends. Books that had filled my entire room to a ridiculous degree.
Books that were now completely gone.
“Oh!” I cried. “A new fantasy book. Check this one out.” I snatched a book with a goblin on the cover that made me queasy.
“Fantasy?” JJ asked, looking puzzled. “What about—”
“Yeah, in just a second.”
He followed as I moved to a different shelf and perused the back of a book abo
ut elf maidens. My mind didn’t catch the words even as I cruised through the first chapter. I was too busy trying not to think about all the romance books in the corner. Of flames, and cinders, and ashes—and of Mama, for some reason.
Other books caught my attention, but I couldn’t remember what they were about five seconds after I read the backs. I reshelved them, lost. All the while, the romance books sang to me from the corner of the store.
“What about this?” JJ handed me a cozy mystery that showed a teakettle sitting on a lace doily.
I skimmed the first chapter, then slid it back. “Looks nice.”
“Nice? Lizbeth, are you all right?”
“Yep.”
He studied me, but I quickly moved on to the middle-grade section. I’d read a decent number of those in elementary school. After half-heartedly giving him a brief tour of the best titles, we turned down horror lane.
“You like horror?” he asked. He studied a cover with a demon and its spawn crawling out of a dark hole.
“Not particularly.”
“Did you want to go check out the new romance titles?” He hooked a thumb back that way.
I waved a hand airily. “In a moment.”
“Lizbeth . . .”
“Oooh, new cookbooks!”
That would distract him and buy time for my heart to stop pounding. For my breath to catch up with my body.
My plan worked. He eagerly perused a few titles, mumbling about patisserie and choux pastry. In the cookbook aisle, I took a few deep breaths.
I could do this.
I could go back there and face those books without thinking of the Frolicking Moose. Without thinking of everything I’d lost that, until this point, I’d avoided thinking about. But now it slammed into me all at once.
All those books.
By sheer force of will, I swallowed my tears. Sweet baby pineapple, this place smelled like my attic room. Like books. Like paper and safety and home. Like I’d stepped into a story and wrapped myself in its pages. The attic room that would never be the same.
The books. My room. Even my laptop, clothes, phone with the sparkly cover. It was all gone. Not only had I lost my books, I’d lost my friends. Those books had gotten me through Mama’s death. Dad’s drinking. The escalation of his abuse.
Now they were ash.
Like a vengeful ghost, another memory of Mama whispered through my mind. “The books have it right, Lizbeth. If you can find a man in real life that’s just like the ones in the books you and I read, you snatch him up. He’ll keep you safe forever.”
“Lizbeth?”
I jerked, startled by the sound of JJ’s voice. He peered at me, a French pastry cookbook in his hands. He set it aside and closed the space between us in two strides. All of a sudden, he was there, hands on my shoulders to ground me.
“You all right?”
“I can’t go back there,” I whispered.
“Why?”
“Because . . . I can’t see all those books. They remind me of home. Of . . .” A sob peeped out of my throat. He reached up, fingers threaded into my hair as his hand pressed against my cheek.
“Of all you lost in the fire?”
“So many books, JJ.”
“Nine hundred fifty-seven,” he said softly.
Tears filled my eyes, and I nodded. How did he remember that number? How was that the most perfect response?
“Books I can never replace.” I still couldn’t raise my voice above a whisper. “They’re worn in the right places so I can quickly find the best scenes. They were with me in the worst times of my life. Now they’re just gone. Along with everything else. Just . . . not there. They were . . . they were my friends.”
JJ looked over at the shelves and back to me. His hands tightened, giving me a comforting squeeze. “Then don’t go back there. Stay here with me.”
My heart stumbled over itself. Why did it feel like he meant more than that?
“Okay.”
He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Grief waits, you know. You can ignore it until you gather your strength. Instead of buying books, let’s look at delicious pictures of food that we can make together.”
“Really?”
He nodded. His hair swayed gently around his cheeks. “If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. You don’t have to go back yet, anyway. I still get you.”
His face was a breath away from mine. My gaze dropped to his lips, half-parted, for a mere second.
“What if I’m never ready to face it?” I whispered.
“You will be, because that’s the kind of person you are. But it doesn’t matter if you’re ready now. The books will be here when that time comes. While you’re figuring that out, let’s find something to make for dinner tonight. Together.”
His hand dropped to my neck. The other one found mine and braided our fingers together. I wanted to pull myself into him and stay there.
“Sound okay?” he asked.
Relief flooded me at the thought of more time with him. Less time with ghosts. I nodded and stuffed the image of Mama away. If I was with him, I could do anything. Even forget all I’d lost.
Because if I hadn’t lost it, would I have ever found him?
“Okay,” I managed.
He smiled, pulled me close, and turned us back to the cookbooks. “Okay. Let’s check out what they’ve got. I, for one, am always craving Indian food.”
24
JJ
My ice cleats dug into the snow.
Breath puffed out in front of me in a fog as I ascended a particularly steep section of trail. I’d broken through thigh-high snow for an hour, and my heart was pounding so hard it shook my torso. Adventura lay at nine thousand feet elevation, but I pressed higher. Close to ten thousand. Shifting through sand-like snow for this long meant my heart would be bruised.
Felt so good.
For a moment, I stopped to scan the mountains. This high, I had a new view. A different perspective. The canyon lay to the south. Ahead of me rose a mountain so high I couldn’t see the top. Last summer, I’d climbed it with Mark while Justin spotted.
Being with the rocks again felt like a cool kiss on frazzled nerves. Mark was feuding with the city council, so he’d slipped into full brooding mode, sitting in his pajamas and staring at the ceiling. It’s where his magic always happened, so I left him to it, but Lizbeth was checking on him every five seconds.
My mind drifted back to our perfect evening last night. We’d found a recipe for spinach lentil dahl in an Indian cookbook, shopped at the grocery store, and fixed it together. She brightened when we discussed her favorite romance plots, then listened intently while I talked about climbing.
The whole night could have been ripped right from a book. Particularly the part where I desperately wanted to kiss her.
But I didn’t, because . . . I didn’t know. Maybe the expectation of the first kiss? Did she have massive dreams for this?
This morning, she’d started into the website project with her usual organized gusto. She’d rattled off a whole bunch of information about landing pages, CSS coding, and professional photographs of the campground. The checklists and spreadsheets she could muster at a moment’s notice were impressive, to say the least.
But now things had changed between us. Nothing was the same. We’d shown a level of interest beyond friendship. I had no idea what to do next. Let this ride? Enjoy the time with her while I had it?
Kiss her already?
Definitely.
Why does it matter? The answer came easily enough. It mattered because Lizbeth mattered.
And Lizbeth mattered a lot.
Maybe too much.
On the back of a long receipt, I’d scribbled several romantic ideas pulled from the audiobook I’d been listening to. Dancing in the rain ranked at the top, apparently. Another one suggested surprising a girl with coffee and letting your fingers linger. Didn’t get that, but all of this was foreign. The ones that had me most worried were
know just what to say at the right moment and save her from inevitable danger by being a badass at fighting.
It all seemed so impossible. She believed in it so much. I didn’t at all—at least, not really. She was twenty-one. I was thirty. Did we really have a chance?
Did I want to risk another Stacey-on-the-beach scene with a girl obsessed with romance? Or was it different this time?
No, I didn’t want Stacey again, but Lizbeth was worlds different.
I shook my head, condensation from my hot breath in the cool air beading on my lower lip. A chill set into my legs where the snowbank pressed against them. I pushed forward again, nearing the top of the ridge. My thoughts moved quickly.
There was more than Lizbeth to think about today. Namely, my future career. When Mark was lounging in silence like this, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to hear my idea. He’d eat a mille-feuille—but would he understand the genius behind it?
My idea would have to wait again. Fortunately, he was the least-observant person on the planet. I could keep my baking and delivery rolling for another month, I imagined, before a decision had to be made.
Lizbeth, though, I didn’t need to hesitate on anymore. I wanted to date her. I wanted Lizbeth to be mine and mine alone. Forgetting Stacey seemed effortless when I compared her against Lizbeth in my mind. There was no more space for anyone else.
Now, I just had to show her that.
Somehow.
My breath came in short, erratic bursts of frosty air that fogged up my sunglasses. Overhead, the sun beat down, but bitter cold breezed along the top of the ridge like gentle breaths. I glanced behind me at the rough seam I’d broken in the snow and sighed. My toes tingled from the thick steel reinforcement of my mountaineering boots.
Still, the cold permeated everything. Sometimes, you just couldn’t fight inevitability.
I returned down the mountain as the sun sank lower in the winter sky, Lizbeth on my mind.
25
Lizbeth
The bustle of a small café at the edge of Jackson City flowed around me. I enjoyed the sounds and vitality of life after the absolute silence of the mountains. Ellie would stop by in a few minutes on her way back down the canyon to Pineville. I couldn’t wait to see her.
