Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I don’t even tell Summer I’m leaving. While she’s upstairs checking on the towel—or more likely looking through her clothes for the sexiest reunion outfit she can pick—I head straight out the door and get into my car. There’s no way around it. I worry how close I am to crumbling beneath the weight of these feelings, and once I do, once she knows the truth, there’s no going back.
If she wants Andrew, I’ll make it easy on her and get out of the way, at least for a few hours.
The bell chimes over the door of Main Street Books.
I’ve always loved Alice’s shop. I contemplated opening one of my own bookstores here, but it’s a lot of work and I’d really only be playing a shop owner when what I actually want to do is own an entire store full of books that I can read at my leisure without anyone bothering me. With that business model, I’d never turn a profit.
There’s a customer with Alice today, an old man wearing a green tweed driving cap and relying heavily on a hand-carved cane. He has her full focus over near the antiquarian books. Those are the real showstoppers, the ones I fantasize about buying every time I come in here. I will come away with one of them eventually, either an early edition Moby Dick or a 1950s copy of Casino Royale by Ian Fleming.
Alice sees me and gives a little wave but otherwise stays focused on her customer. She must be close to making a deal, and I’m happy for her. With the right sale, Alice could cover overhead at the store for months.
I busy myself browsing the aisles. Since Summer’s arrival, I haven’t been reading as much as I usually do so I’m not in the market for anything new, but this is part of my distraction plan. I can’t go home, so I have to linger here.
It could be worse. At least I’m among my favorite things.
I check my watch and confirm that Andrew will be passing through Sedbergh anytime now on his way to the cottage. With Alice’s shop right on Main Street, I could theoretically see him drive by, but I have no idea what car he’s in. Still, that doesn’t stop me from craning my neck every time I hear tires in the snow outside.
Pathetic. I’ve fully lost it.
“I’ll think on it,” I hear the man tell Alice in a heavy English accent.
When I turn back, I see her hold out a business card for him to take. “Of course, I understand. The shop will be open again tomorrow, but not Sunday.”
She helps him to the shop door where a driver waits to escort him to his car.
Alice’s smile only drops once she steps back inside, her back to the street. “I was hoping that would go differently.”
“Big fish?”
“Huge.”
I look out to see the man getting into a vintage Range Rover. Big fish indeed. “Maybe he’ll be back,” I tell her, offering up a conciliatory smile. “He seemed really interested.”
“Yes, in looking,” she says hopelessly. “So many people come here just to window shop. He was browsing for over an hour. He made me take out most every book I have in that back cabinet.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe she wasted so much time. Then she heads toward the pile of papers waiting for her on the counter.
“Right, well I’ll buy one. How’s that? Get the Fleming.”
She laughs and shoots me a droll look. “I’m not selling you a book.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t want it. Not really. You’re only trying to be nice.”
“Nice?” I pfft air out of my mouth like she’s crazy. “Ask Summer how nice I am.”
She cocks an eyebrow, curious.
“Never mind. Forget I said that.”
I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t want to invite Alice into this. The last thing I need is more opinions on a situation I’m actively trying to escape.
“How is it with her at the cottage? Must be a little strange. I never got the sense that you enjoy people in your space.”
“It’s good,” I insist. “She fits.”
It’s weird how that happens. I thought every little thing would annoy me, from the way Summer washes the dishes to the way she hangs her bras out to dry, but she’s assimilated so easily, or maybe I have. The last time I had a roommate, it was in college, and he would leave his takeout containers in the fridge for weeks, letting them grow into science experiments before I’d eventually toss them into the trash when he wasn’t home.
“Did you get rid of my spaghetti?” he’d ask, like he was actually going to eat the damn stuff.
“You mean the green mutinous monster that was once your spaghetti? Yeah, I shoved it down the trash chute so it wouldn’t kill us in our sleep.”