The Bookworm's Guide to Faking It (The Bookworm's Guide, #2)

by Emma Hart

And my grandmother.

  And my sister.

  Basically, everyone.

  I was not a very tolerant person, obviously.

  “Earth to Holley.” Saylor snapped her fingers. “Come back to me!”

  I blinked and looked at her. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Do I have to mail them?” she repeated.

  Right. Margaret. “No. They’re already labeled; they just need to be dropped off. You shouldn’t have to see Margaret at all.”

  “Thank God for that.” She zipped up her coat and grabbed the big bag of parcels. “If she accosts me, you owe me dinner.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I tucked my phone in the pocket of my sweater and followed her out to the store.

  “I’m not kidding!” she called as she bumbled her way out the door, struggling not to hit the frame with the huge bag of orders.

  She failed.

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed the books from the tables. Thankfully, they were all new releases, so I carried them over to that table near the door and stopped.

  It was a mess.

  Damn it.

  Well, at least that gave me something to do.

  I pulled each title off and started a stack on the chairs nearby. Within minutes, the table was completely empty, and I set about rearranging the books so it looked more appealing.

  The bell over the door dinged when I was halfway through. “I’ll be right there,” I said over my shoulder, setting a book on a stand on top of a stack. “Just a second.”

  “Don’t rush just for me.”

  Oh, hell no.

  I knew that voice. It was deeper than I remembered, but I’d still know it anywhere.

  Sebastian Stone.

  My heart stopped. Dead. Just ike that.

  That was it.

  I was dead now.

  RIP me.

  I swallowed, then slowly looked over my shoulder at the man who was once my best friend.

  He was tall, at least six-foot-three, and his body was muscled and filled out in perfect proportion to his height. His curly black hair was scruffy and pushed back from his face, like he’d run his fingers through it in frustration ten times before he’d come in here, and his jaw was covered in a rough black stubble that looked a little too long to have been trimmed recently.

  But it was his eyes.

  He’d always had the bluest, most amazing eyes, and that hadn’t changed. Now, they pierced into me, shining with the amusement that was reflected in the smirk that curved his lips.

  “What? Have I changed that much?” He held his hands out at his sides, and his watch glinted off the weak winter sunlight that shone through the window. “Surely you’ve seen me a few times in the last few years.”

  From anyone else, that would have sounded arrogant and cocky, totally egotistical. But from him… It just sounded like the joke I knew it was.

  I pursed my lips. “Sebastian. It’s been a while.”

  “Sebastian. Ouch.” He winced. “Now I know I’m in trouble.”

  With a sigh, I turned around and picked up Nicholas Sparks’ latest novel to put back on the table. “How are you?”

  “How are you? That’s it? We haven’t seen each other in eight years, and—”

  “And that’s it,” I said calmly, setting the book stand on top of the stack. “We haven’t seen each other in eight years.” I peered over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, was I supposed to run into your arms, sobbing about how much I’ve missed you?”

  “I see your attitude grew with you.”

  “I see your inability to see past the end of your nose grew with you.”

  He laughed and stepped further inside the store, looking around. “I should have guessed you’d end up owning this place one day.”

  “Co-own,” I corrected him. “With Saylor and Kinsley.”

  “Obviously. I can’t imagine you not being attached at the hip with them.”

  I made a noise that could have been either agreement or a refusal to respond. Or both. Probably both.

  “I like what you’ve all done here,” he said, walking around the front of the store. He came up to me and picked up one of the books I’d just set down, a new historical by a big-name author I’d never read. “Not really my thing.” He set it back down, crooked.

  I refrained from sighing again as I straightened it, then turned back to go behind the register. “Why are you here, Sebastian?”

  He dropped the unbothered act and looked at me, his lips now curled slightly downward instead of upward. “I wanted to see you, Holl.”

  “Holley.”

  “What?”

  “My name. It’s Holley.” I met his gaze. “Use it.”

  “Wow.” He shook his head. “I know we didn’t leave things on the best of terms, but—”

  “But what?” I raised an eyebrow. “You thought that after eight years of us not even sharing a ‘hello’ you could walk in here and it would be like I didn’t walk in on you playing tonsil tennis with my deadly enemy?”

  He looked at me for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “Well, then you didn’t know me that well after all.” I gathered the papers that had come loose from the order book and straightened them out by tapping them against the table, then adjusted my glasses.

  “I thought you might have grown up a little.”

  I glared at him. “Then you didn’t know me that well after all,” I repeated through gritted teeth. “You can leave now.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Come on, Holl—ey,” he added. “I’m going to be in town for long time. We were eighteen, we can leave it behind us now, can’t we?”

  “I haven’t spoken to Iris since that night, and she lives here in town. I think I can manage not talking to you for a few months until you leave again to be a big superstar.” I gave him a pointed look that I hoped portrayed my disdain accurately enough.

  Accurately enough that he would leave.

  A girl could hope.

  But if he was still the same Sebastian I knew—and I feared he was—that wasn’t going to happen.

  Sebastian sighed and approached the counter, gripping the edge of the molded mahogany.

  Yep.

  I was right.

  Sometimes, I hated being right.

  “Holley, listen to me. That was years ago. I’m sorry I hurt you, but—”

  “Okay, if you’re going to apologize for hurting someone, you don’t follow it up with the word ‘but.’” I folded my arms across my chest. “There is no ‘but’ that could ever follow that sentence, because the second you say that I know you’re about to do one of two things. Say you didn’t mean to, which negates your apology entirely, or you’re about to tell me why it’s my fault, therefore absolving you of all responsibility just to make yourself feel better because you know you did a shitty thing.”

  He said nothing.

  “So no, you’re not sorry you hurt me. Try again.”

  “I am sorry I hurt you.” The shadow that passed over his eyes was hard to deny. “You were my best friend, Holley. Hurting you wasn’t anything I ever wanted to do.”

  I made another grunt-like noise. “Well, you did. And it’s done. We’ve moved on and grown up.”

  “Clearly not, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He leaned forward a little. “What do you want me to do? Take out a front-page ad telling you how sorry I am?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Billboard in Times Square?”

  “Stop—you can do that?” My eyebrows shot up, before I shook my head and threw away that thought. “Stop it,” I said, going back to my original train of thought. “It’s fine. Stuff happens and people change. We changed, Sebastian, and that’s it. Just because we were friends then doesn’t mean we need to be now.”

  “What if I want to be?”

  “I don’t want to be.” I put the order book down on the register and got up off the stool with every intention of opening the door and seeing him out, but h
e had other ideas.

  He stepped out and blocked my way, keeping me from going past him. He peered down at me with those dangerously blue eyes and almost pouted. “Let me make it up to you.”

  “I just said no,” I said firmly, walking around him.

  Sebastian’s hand wrapped around my upper arm gently, just enough to make me stop. “Holley—”

  The act of his skin touching mine sent goosebumps pimpling down the back of my neck. It was an act that was unwelcome because all it did was serve to remind me that, despite my blustering, I was extremely attracted to Sebastian.

  And I didn’t want to be attracted to Sebastian.

  My nostrils flared as I turned my head to look up at him. “If you don’t remove your hand from my arm, I’m going to rip it off so hard I’ll tear your rotator cuff all over again.”

  His lips pulled to one side in a smirk that annoyed the shit out of me. “Look at that. You have been keeping up with me.”

  But he dropped his hand, just in case.

  “Have you met the residents of White Peak?” I snarked. “I don’t have a choice, but rest assured, I don’t seek a damn thing out about you.”

  His smirk became a smile, one that stretched across his annoyingly handsome face.

  “Why are you smiling at me?”

  He walked around me and walked backward toward the door where he stopped, his hand clasped around the handle. “Just thinking that it’s great to see you again.” His eyes flashed with laughter. “See you soon, Holley.”

  “No, you won’t!” I yelled as he left the store, leaving a whoosh of cold air in his wake.

  I heard his laughter even through the heavy door, and he called back, “Yes, I will!”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that I most certainly would not, thank you very much, but stopped myself. That was what he wanted—me to fall into the trap of arguing with him until I inevitably gave in and accepted his apology.

  Well, it sucked to be him, because that wasn’t going to happen.

  There was no way in hell I was accepting Sebastian Stone’s apology.

  I rubbed the back of my neck to dispel the goosebumps that were, annoyingly, still prickled there, and shivered as I turned back to the register to take my seat on the stool.

  The reaction I’d had to him was the most uncomfortable thing I’d felt in a while. I mean, I knew he was handsome, and I knew I’d feel something, but the way my heart had stopped when I’d heard his voice and my skin had pimpled at his touch…

  Screw that.

  I was not falling into that trap. No way, Jose.

  I was going to avoid the man. In fact, I was going to go out of my way to avoid the man.

  If my life were a romance novel, this would be the moment where I’d stop and go all authorial intrusion on the reader. But it wasn’t, so I’d just talk to the imaginary reader in my head, pretending like I was a long-suffering romance heroine who flicked her hair and swished her Jane Austen-era skirts as she stormed off down the stairs.

  Mark my words, dear reader.

  Nothing good would come of Sebastian being home.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE – SEBASTIAN

  rule three: the louder the scream, the bigger the fake.

  “Grandpa, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this place.” I put the food I’d brought for his lunch on the table in front of him in his room. “You have the best room in this place.”

  He wiggled a finger crooked with arthritis in my direction. “I don’t want a room in this place, Sebastian. I want a room in my own place.”

  “Yes, well, you can’t look after yourself anymore after your fall, and I’m not fit enough to look after you either.”

  “Tell your mother she’s the worst child I’ve ever had!”

  She was the only child he’d ever had, so I didn’t think that one would sting too much.

  “Tell Mom yourself,” I replied, opening the Styrofoam container than held his sandwich. “If I tell her, she’ll only tell me to mind my mouth, and then we’ll both in trouble.”

  “Why am I in trouble now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure she’ll think of something. We’re always in trouble with her.”

  He harumphed. “I’m eighty-five. I shouldn’t be in trouble with my daughter.”

  “Yeah, and I’m twenty-seven and the best-paid pitcher in the league, but I still get in trouble with her.” I adjusted the thermostat in his room.

  Another grumble came from his direction. “Just because you’re paying for this doesn’t mean you can mess with my heat!”

  “Grandpa, I could fry an egg on that coffee table,” I said dryly. “Unless you want me to leave.”

  “No. I don’t know anyone here.”

  “Have you even bothered to leave your room yet?” I bit into my own sandwich, losing a bit of lettuce into the container.

  “They make me leave it three times a day to get food. Another time to get exercise. Exercise! I don’t need to exercise. It ain’t gonna save me from the grim reaper now, boy.”

  I stared at him. “You know what your doctor said. You need at least one gentle walk a day to make sure your hip doesn’t seize up until you can get the replacement. Preferably two.”

  “I don’t want it replaced.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I do not. I like this hip. It’s mine.”

  Good fucking Lord. If there was one thing I forgot every time I was away, it was how ornery my grandfather was.

  “Well, you broke that one, so you can’t keep it,” I shot back. “You need a hip that works, not one that crunches like gravel every time you move.”

  He snorted. “Are you getting a new shoulder?”

  “I tore my rotator cuff, not shattered the bone to smithereens.” My tone was dry. “And it’s getting better. Thank you for asking.”

  “I didn’t ask. I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Stop pretending like I’m a nice person,” he grumbled. “I’m trying to build a reputation here.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “One of being a jerk?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “You’re in a fine mood today, aren’t you? Do you need a nap?”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  He wrinkled his face up and poked his tongue out at me.

  Honestly, the man had acted his shoe size as long as I could remember. I doubted that was something that would change anytime soon.

  God forbid you asked the man to behave.

  “What did your doctor say?” he asked me, referring to my appointment this morning.

  “They don’t know if I’ll be back next season.” My stomach had been in knots ever since I’d heard those words. I’d started this season on a high, coming off the best one ever after we’d finally won the World Series for the first time in thirty years.

  This year was poised to be even better with another major win in our sights.

  And then…

  My shoulder went out mid-game against New York.

  The Montana Bears hadn’t made it to the finals.

  I’d gone from the best damn pitcher in the league to an operating table quicker than you could say my name, and now…

  There was no guarantee that I’d ever play again. And if I did, I wasn’t going to be the player I was two months ago.

  That was the only thing that was certain about this.

  That I would never be the same again.

  Grandpa grunted. “Sorry, slugger. You thought about teaching?”

  “No. I want to get back out there.” I closed the container that had held my sandwich and put it back in the bag. “If I can’t… Well, I’ll think about that when the time comes.”

  Another grunt. It was basically his primary means of communication, and it could mean just about anything at any time.

  Thankfully, I was used to it.

  The silence was broken by
three knocks at the door, and when Grandpa didn’t move to tell them they could come in, I did it for him.

  “What did you do that for?” he grumbled, picking tomato out of his sandwich.

  “Because it’s polite. You should try it sometime,” I retorted.

  An elderly woman with her gray hair up in a chic twist hobbled into the room on a cane. She wore a shocking pick dress with a knitted mustard-yellow shawl around her shoulders, and she narrowed her eyes at me behind round-lensed glasses. “Who are you?”

  I stood up and approached her, offering her my hand. “Sebastian Stone, ma’am.”

  She looked at my hand as if it were covered in germs. “I know you. You went to school with my granddaughter.”

  That didn’t narrow it down.

  “Go away, Rosie,” Grandpa grunted. “I don’t want you in my bedroom. There’s nothing in here for you.”

  Rosie.

  “Ah. Holley and Ivy’s grandmother?” I asked politely.

  Her eyes narrowed even further. “Who else’s grandmother would I be?”

  “There were lots of girls he went to school with, you daft woman!” Grandpa’s voice raised a few decibels. “Your granddaughters aren’t the only ones in the world!”

  “Oh, be quiet, you ornery bastard,” Rosie shot back, waving her cane enthusiastically in his direction. “I wasn’t talking to you!”

  “Good! I don’t want you talking to me! Now get out and take my grandson with you!”

  “Oooh!” She wiggled her cane in a more threatening manner. “And here I was about to give you a tip about those darn afternoon walks they insist we take!”

  I blinked. “Mrs. Stuart, he has to take that—”

  “You keep out of this, boy.” Grandpa sniffed and leaned forward, his wrinkled hands clasping the arms of his chair. “What tip?”

  “You can swivel on it now!” Rosie barked. “You’re coming with the rest of us, Amos!”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort! Get out of my bedroom, Rosie!”

  I blinked between them. Grandpa was not in the mood for further company, evidently. I went over to him and kissed his leathery cheek, ignoring yet another grunt from him. “I’ll speak to you soon, Grandpa.”

  Another grunt.

  “Mrs. Stuart, I’m on my way out. Why don’t I join you on your way downstairs?” I swept her out of Grandpa’s room before she could argue.