Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  I thumbed through the messages and returned several calls. While I listened to Mrs. Ball rattle off the license plate numbers of every car she spotted rolling the stop sign near her house, I paged through the newspaper in search of Annette.

  "I'll send a deputy out to watch that intersection," I promised. "Bye now, Mrs. Ball."

  Once I reached the Lifestyle section, I found Annette's smiling face. She was gorgeous as always but it was her confidence that radiated from the page. She had her arm resting on the counter inside her shop, piles of books at her back. I remembered her wearing that dress several weeks ago, the aqua one with the funky print along the hem. After the interview, I'd dragged her into the storeroom, ducked under the skirt, and offered my congratulations with my tongue.

  A sidebar listed her top new releases of the past summer as well as her all-time favorites, plus recommendations for younger readers. The page was loaded with bright photos of Annette's shop and close-ups of her chatting with customers. They were great shots and Annette looked amazing. The article, that was another story.

  The reporter went for the lady bookseller angle, favoring lady over book. I would've been on board with a good boost for women-owned businesses but the interview centered around her personal life rather than her career.

  The reporter seemed to draw connections between Annette's favorite books and her marital status, writing, "It's no surprise this lover of all things Jane Austen is holding out for Mr. Right. When asked about her own experiences with romance, Ms. Cortassi demurred but later admitted she was 'very single.'"

  I would've been all right with "single." I could've taken that punch and gone on fighting but "very single" knocked me out. I was on the ground, my eyes crossed and stars spinning over my head, and it took me a full minute of reminding myself that interview took place a month ago to get back up.

  Blinking down at the newspaper, I skimmed the last paragraphs. Thankfully, I wasn't tempted to put my fist through a wall while reading but I still resented the hell out of this reporter. I had a mind to write a letter to the editor, complaining about that reporter's lack of professionalism. Readers deserved better than reporters who saw nothing more than a woman's bare ring finger.

  And I wanted to talk to Annette about this. About the very. We were going to get a few things straight, yes, we were. There was no single, no very, none of it. Even if the interview hadn't aged well, I wanted to hear that from her.

  I pushed out of my chair and pivoted, facing Annette's shop. It seemed like she had some customers in there but I could go in through the back door and wait until she was finished. We'd talk, we'd make sense of this impasse, and then I'd take my woman home with me. Keep her home with me.

  Chapter 19

  Annette

  Curdling

  v. The condition when a food mixture separates into its component parts.

  The last thing I expected to see this afternoon was my mother and sisters marching through the village like they were storming the beaches. My hands froze over the stack of books on the counter as I watched them descend on my shop in near-identical outfits: yoga pants, neon sneakers, t-shirts emblazoned with the regional middle school's mascot, a fuckton of makeup.

  "What do I owe you, dear?" Cindy asked, snapping me out of my surprise-visit-induced stupor.

  "Sorry about that," I murmured, blinking down at the counter. I added the last of Cindy's selections and pivoted the sales screen toward her. "Twenty ninety-seven."

  She thumbed a few bills from the purse she kept belted around her waist. Some would call it a fanny pack. Cindy wasn't one of those people. She called it a cross-body bag and didn't have time for anyone who tried to correct her.

  "I have twenty-one dollars and two pennies for you," she said, sliding the money toward me, "for a nickel back."

  I bagged her books, my gaze continuously pinging over her shoulder at my family as they neared the shop. I was able to convince myself they were in town for reasons other than visiting with me. Perhaps they wanted ice cream from the local creamery or craved some fried fish goodness from The Galley. Better yet, they were getting their steps in with a harbor view today. All perfectly reasonable.

  "I think you'll like this one," I said, gesturing to the newest in a series about a family of hunky, swoony California winemakers. "Steamy. Real steamy. But a lot of substance, too."

  "I bet you're right," Cindy answered, her smile wide and her eyes glittering with the joy of getting lost in a new story. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to browse a bit more. Poke around. See if I can't blow the whole paycheck."

  "Be my guest," I said with a forced laugh. I couldn't find any humor with my family on the sidewalk.

  When the door chime announced their arrival, I played busy. My focus on the box of new releases in front of me, I called, "I'll be right with you. Just looking over next week's new titles. I know one of them is going to fly right off the shelves and I won't be able to—"

  "We're not here to talk about books, Annette," Nella said.

  "Well, not right now," Lydia added.

  "But can we talk about that dress real quick?" Rosa asked, zigzagging her finger in my direction. "Because the cut is fine but the color is a crime against your skin tone. I swear to god, Annette, I'm going to clean out your closet one of these days and get rid of all the pastel. Baby shades don't work for you."

  "You're right," Nella murmured.

  Glancing up, I worked hard at pulling a surprised expression. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy seeing my family. I did. I also liked the time and space to mentally fortify myself for those interactions. And wine. I liked wine.

  "Oh my gosh! What are you guys doing here?" I asked, holding my arms wide but staying behind the counter. Not in a million years was I acknowledging that comment about my dress. I loved this pale pink sundress and I wasn't parting with it for anything. My sisters could lapse into full-on Fashion Police mode on me and I didn't have one good shit to give about it.

  I held a big smile while my sisters and mother exchanged wordless glances and tiny shrugs. It went on for a solid two minutes, long enough to catch Cindy's attention over in the romance section. She gave them a quick once-over and went back to her browsing. Whichever plan they'd hatched on the way here—because they always had plans—had gone to shit when they walked in.

  Eventually, my mother asked, "Annette, are you dating Sheriff Lau?"

  A shocked, breathy noise rattled in my throat, like I was gagging on a laugh. I hadn't been expecting this visit but I should've expected that question. I didn't look toward Cindy or the romance section. I couldn't meet her gaze for anything. "What? What are you talking about?"

  "See? I told you it was ridiculous," Rosa said, giving my mother and sisters a sharp look. "Can we go now?"

  I went back to fussing with the box in front of me. I wasn't lying, not exactly. I just wasn't confirming anything. It was an omission, for sure, but I needed more time to formulate my approach with my family. If I appeared disinterested and blew off their questions, I'd buy myself a month or two. That was what I needed to prepare Jackson for a Cortassi family dinner-slash-inquisition and pray he didn't run far and fast in the opposite direction.

  "If you're not involved with him, well, that's—that's good," my mother said. "A relief, really."

  "A relief?" I asked. I was glad I hadn't said anything. This way, I could hear what they really thought. I went on shuffling the contents of this box as if it required an extreme attention to detail. "How do you figure that?"

  Rosa smiled as she stepped toward me. "We wouldn't want you getting hurt."

  "Okay," I said, dragging the word all the way out. "Not sure about that but thanks."

  "He's just out of your league, honey. It wouldn't work out in the long run," Rosa said. "Think about it. If you're honest with yourself, I'm sure you'll see we're right."

  Ice shot through my veins, freezing me where I stood. Rosa wasn't one to make oblique comments so she wasn't saying that to hurt me. She was sayi
ng it because she believed it. Part of me believed it, too. I'd always believed it.

  "And after everything that happened with Owen," Nella added. The cringe on her face said it all. She didn't have to say another word but she couldn't help but provide an annotated history of my missteps. "Where you kept trying to force it with him and he clearly didn't want that, and you didn't know how to recognize a brush-off when you saw one, and you spent a couple of years looking desperate? You don't want to do that again."

  "You don't," Lydia agreed. "It doesn't matter what you two are doing. You shouldn't try to force it with the sheriff, Annette."

  I jabbed a finger at them. "You're being kind of awful right now. You're welcome to rest this case at any time."

  Nella folded her arms as she sent me a smug glare. She was good at that, being smug. I couldn't say it suited her but it was certainly a skill she possessed.

  "We're telling you the truth," Nella argued. "We care about you. We wouldn't be saying this if we didn't."

  "I mean, there are ways to get your point across without also being awful," I said, shrugging. "I'm just saying."

  "Sometimes the truth hurts. It's a lot like getting your vag waxed," Rosa said. "And you seem really sensitive for someone who claims she isn't hooking up with the sheriff."

  "Your sisters are right," Mom said, leaving no room for dispute. "Whatever you think is happening between you and the sheriff, it's time to let it go. You two aren't a good match."

  "Not at all," Nella insisted.

  "Cool," I deadpanned. "Not sure about all that but thanks for your concern."

  I wanted to argue. Tell them they knew nothing about me and Jackson. Insist I was worthy of a man like Jackson. Remind them I'd never questioned them or their relative value when they were dating their now-husbands.

  I wanted to cry. Walk away, sink down into a dark corner, and cry. The door chimes sounded and I answered Cindy's wave with one of my own.

  "He needs a wifey-wife and you're not into the wifey gig," Nella continued. Goddamn, I wanted to throw a book at her head. "You don't cook, you don't iron, you're not into the whole happy home thing. There are too many nice girls around here who would do that for him. Don't make him believe he should settle."

  "We're only looking out for you, Annette," Mom added. "We don't want to see you following that poor man around like you did with Owen. Like Nella said, it was desperate. You don't attract a man with desperation."

  Their words stung but I wasn't going to let them see that. I wasn't going to let them see anything.

  I wanted to argue. Tell them they knew nothing about me or Jackson. Insist I was worthy of a man like him. Remind them I'd never questioned them or their relative value when they were dating their now-husbands.

  I wanted to cry. Walk away, sink dark down into a corner, and cry. Forget all the barbs and backhanded comments—the open-fist ones, too—and pour it out.

  I wanted Jackson. I wanted to get lost in him and his unyielding comfort, and I wanted him to promise me they were wrong. But now I knew what they'd think about me and Jackson, together. What they'd say when I wasn't in the room. I'd always known it would be this way but hearing it from them cemented it for me.

  I also wanted to school my family on gender roles in modern society. I didn't know where they got off with this line of thinking. It was moments like these that made me question my lineage.

  Somewhere in the far reaches of my soul, I found an extra store of saccharine sweetness and forced the brightest damn smile of my life. "That's enough about crazy town gossip. What's for one day," I said, shaking my head hard. "What's going on with you guys?"

  Rosa fluffed her ponytail with an exaggerated groan. "We've been setting up our classrooms all morning," she said. "My room was such a disaster."

  Everything made more sense now. The workout gear, the freshest cut from the rumor mill. Denise Primiani wasn't getting any baked good from me for the rest of the year.

  "I can't believe how much work I have left before the first day of school," Lydia said. "I'm going to be in my classroom nonstop for the next two weeks. Goodbye, beach. Goodbye, vacation."

  "It's the same every year," Rosa snapped. "Stop thinking it's going to be different because you use colored tape to organize your boxes at the end of the year."

  "Why was it so bad?" I asked. It was an honest question. I didn't understand why classroom setup was such a time-consuming experience every time August came to a close.

  "Oh, Annette, you should've seen it," Mom said, rubbing her brow. "The entire building was painted over the summer and everything was in a pile in the center of my room. Chairs, desks, books, boxes, everything. It was like climbing Kilimanjaro just to get started."

  "I was completely convinced I was going to die in a landslide," Nella added. "It's amazing that none of us are trapped under a pile of desks."

  "It was bad but I didn't think I was going to die," Rosa said.

  "The summers when they paint are the worst," Mom replied. "If I wasn't retiring at the end of this year, I would've painted the room myself and been done with it."

  "That seems…difficult," I said.

  "You have no idea," Nella said. She was wagging that finger again and I was working overtime to keep my expression easy. "Honestly, though. You don't know the first thing about getting a classroom ready for the first day of school. You have it so easy, Annette."

  This book was practically begging me to chuck it at her.

  "I sure don't," I replied. "Understand, that is. I don't understand."

  Lydia dug through her purse, absently saying, "We have to go. We're meeting the rest of the English Language Arts department for vertical alignment planning and we're going to be late if we don't leave now."

  "Oh, yeah," Rosa said, touching her fingertips to her temples. "Winnie Walton asked me if you could recommend some new young adult historical fiction books for her World War Two unit. I told her I wasn't sure if you knew anything about kids' books."

  I could put up with some bullshit but this was one pile too many. "I do," I snapped. I flung my arm toward the left side of the shop. The one overflowing with children's and young adult books. "Plenty. Tell her to stop by or shoot me an email. I have tons of new titles her students would love."

  Rosa blinked at the life-size Harry Potter cutout in the corner. "Yeah, I guess so," she murmured. "Huh. I've never noticed that."

  "Rosa, you can have this conversation some other time. I'm grade chair this year," Nella said. "I can't be late for this meeting."

  "Girls," Mom chided. "I'll meet you in the car." Shaking her head, she stepped away from my sisters and met me at the counter. "Annette, sweetheart, promise me you won't chase the new sheriff. If he's interested, he'll come to you."

  "Mom," I said, laughing off her comment. "I get what you're saying. Loud and painfully clear. Okay?"

  She tipped her head to the side, her lips folded together as she regarded me. "I want the best things for you," she said.

  I believed that, too. She wanted me to be happy and have everything I wanted. The only issue was that she also believed I should lower my expectations and cram myself into a tiny, wifey box. Back when I started talking about opening a bookstore in Talbott's Cove, she insisted I'd be content working at the big chain bookstore outside town. She'd argued it would be easier, less stressful, more secure. I'd have a consistent paycheck and reliable health insurance, and I understood where she was coming from. That was my mother's way of caring—being extremely risk averse.

  But it also had the effect of taking an axe to my sense of agency.

  "I know you do, Mom," I replied.

  She straightened a display of greeting cards and postcards before stepping back. "All right. Angie Dixon's son is moving back home next month. I'm sure you remember him. Since you're not dating anyone," she said pointedly, "I'll talk to her about setting you two up."

  I reached out, trying to snatch that idea away from her. "Mom—"

  "Don't worry about a thi
ng. I'll take care of it all," she promised.

  I stared after my mother as she exited my shop and hiked across the village. With her went a wave of adrenaline and I slouched against the counter. It wasn't always like this with my family. Most of the time, they ignored me, going about their inside conversations without noticing the outsider. But there were occasions when I had a clan of mothers, each one intent on babying me in her way.

  It wasn't just the babying though. It was the minimizing, the way they confined me to that tiny cube and told me it was all I could have. Everything else, it wasn't for me. Too big, too small, too ambitious, wrong league. It left me hollowed out.

  Abandoning the new releases, I trudged toward the storeroom. I needed some water and a brownie because brownies made everything better.

  Instead of a brownie, I found Jackson leaning against the table. It was a casual pose, his arms folded across his chest, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, but it was his expression that had me frozen in the doorway. His head was tipped down, his gaze steady on the floor but distant, his jaw clenched. His collar was open at the base of his neck. I stared at the golden skin there for a long moment.

  "I dropped by to say hello because I wanted to talk to you," he started, his tone sharper than any knife, "and I learned you're not dating anyone and your mother is fixing you up with other men."

  I clasped my hands together and tucked them under my chin, the only shield I had from this war on two fronts. On the one side was my family and their insistence I wasn't meant for a man like Jackson. I could scrape the black-tarred stick of their words away—and I would—but I'd always know they believed he was settling with me. That he could—and should—do much better than the bookish chick who didn't own an iron. It didn't matter that they were wrong or that I'd discarded that notion as soon as they floated it. They'd never look at me and Jackson with anything less than exasperated hand-wringing and I wasn't sure I could continue scraping that away without leaving myself tender and raw in the process.