Best Laid Plans Read online

  Food seems a close second on his list of favorite things. Even if he was eating the picnic to be polite, he legit appeared to appreciate the spread. Men who work with their hands and bodies seem to dig gifts of fuel more than others.

  Hence these kickass treats, courtesy of a recipe from my favorite Instagram baker, a fifteen-year-old in New York City who makes the most creative treats on her baking show. It’s amazing what you can learn on Instagram once you look past the endless selfie sea. I press the green plastic top onto the container, sealing in the goodies with a pop. I wipe one palm against the other. There.

  Tucking the treats into my shoulder bag, I leave my two-story yellow cottage with the wraparound porch I happen to think is the height of good living, lock the door, and walk six blocks to the town square where my very own bookstore sits proudly in the center of Oak Street. A New Chapter overlooks an expanse of emerald-green grass, park benches, and a statue of some old dude who founded this town in the gold rush era.

  I open the cherry-red door to A New Chapter to a twin chorus of meows.

  “Are you starving? Is that what you’re telling me? Twelve hours is just too long for your bellies to handle?”

  Henry and Clare answer with a duet of cat yeses, so I scoop some food for the rescue kitties the local shelter manager asked me to take in. How could I resist? They were homeless after the wine country fires last year, so I gave them four walls and a roof amidst the books, since customers dig bookstore cats. They purr their appreciation—a gratitude that will only last for a few minutes since they are, after all, cats.

  When Henry’s done, the big orange beast parks himself in the window for a public bathing, while Clare, the calico, lounges on a shelf in self-help today, watching every customer as if she’s a guard cat, perhaps personally selecting the books for them. That one needs more self-esteem. She’ll knock the right book off the shelf. This one has mommy issues. Clare will bat the ideal title with her paw, even if she’s sprawled across the one slightly loose shelf.

  I cruise through a busy morning, leading a story time for four-year-olds then helping some customers find the best coffee-table books to give as gifts.

  As the clock ticks to noon, I grab my bag and find Madeline shelving books. I hired her a few months ago, and she’s a go-getter—best employee ever.

  “I need to run a quick errand. Can you handle the store?”

  Her green eyes twinkle behind her red rhinestone-studded glasses. “Of course. Can I also work on the bestsellers display if no one’s here?”

  Boy, do I love go-getters. “Go for it.”

  I take off.

  The guys usually wash the trucks now—a scheduling tidbit I only happen to know because of the number of times I’ve heard bookstore customers remark about the eye candy value of our local firemen—so this should be a good time to find Gabe. The firehouse is only a few blocks away, and as it comes into view, I spot Shaw and Gabe, who’s dipping a cloth into a bucket and polishing the engine to a bright, gleaming shade of red.

  My flats click-clack across the pavement. Gabe looks up and smiles at me, and for a brief moment, my chest flutters. The man is as handsome as a movie star. We’re talking Hemsworth-brother handsome, which is about the best thing any man anywhere can look like. He wears dark pants and a blue T-shirt with the number of the firehouse on it: 212. He makes those clothes look better than a simple tee and slacks should, courtesy of a tall, hard, muscular frame with broad shoulders, strong biceps, and flat abs.

  And I believe I’m ogling.

  Maybe that’s because there’s just something about a fireman.

  But I’m not here to admire him, or anyone, I remind myself. I’m here to be a gracious citizen of the town of Lucky Falls.

  Look out, Gabe. The nice girl is coming for you.

  4

  Arden

  I raise my chin, wanting him to see the confident side of me, rather than the snot-slipping-down-my-nose side. “Hey, Gabe. Just wanted to say thank you for helping me the other day. I have a little gift for you.”

  He drops the rag into a bucket, wipes his hands on a clean cloth, and strides across the driveway, out of earshot of the other guys. When he reaches me, he takes off his sunglasses, and those blue eyes . . . whoa. They’re dreamier than I remembered. They’re the color of the sky on a cloudless day, when all you want to do is soak up the rays.

  “You didn’t need to do anything,” he says, and those baby blues—are they taking a quick stroll up and down my body?

  Did he just do that?

  There’s no way he gave me a once-over.

  I must be seeing things.

  “Of course I did. You were amazing, and I appreciate it so much,” I say, keeping my focus on my mission—courtesy—rather than on deciphering the hieroglyphics of men.

  He waves a big hand dismissively. “I was happy to do it. Though, to be fair, the robins did seem quite pissed at me for running smack into their lunch plans.”

  I laugh. “Were they a little peeved or were they completely annoyed?”

  “Oh, we’re talking Angry Birds level,” he says, and I crack up. “I suspect they were hoping to abscond with more of your picnic.” He pats his belly, trim and flat. “Apparently, I’m now public enemy number one among the birds of Silver Phoenix Lake.”

  He’s doing it again. Making every moment so damn easy—sweet and carefree, like his deep voice, his confident stride, his casual manner. “Is there a wanted poster up in the woods?”

  “I believe there is. Those birds were raring to go—ready to fight me for the rest of those picnic goodies.” He narrows his stare, intently serious. “Now, tell me, have you chucked any more crackers since then?”

  I shake my head, smiling. “Nope. Not a single one.”

  “Hit any other joggers on the trail?”

  “None at all. I’m going clean, I swear.”

  He offers a fist for bumping. “That’s what I like to hear. I’m glad you’ve had no need to turn snacks into projectile missiles. But you do know if you ever want to chuck something, you can call on me for target practice.” He taps his chest. “I can handle it.”

  “Deal. And I’ll try not to take you up on it.” I dip my hand into my bag, taking out the Tupperware. “I made these for you this morning. Fresh out of the oven.”

  He lifts his nose and sniffs. “What have you got there? They smell like heaven.”

  “Just a little treat.” As I give him the container, his fingers brush mine, lightly enough to deliver a little spark along my spine, like a low hum of possibility. “Cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels.”

  He whistles in appreciation. “Damn.”

  “You can share them with the guys. Even Shaw,” I say, mentioning my best friend’s brother, who works at this firehouse.

  “I’ll do no such thing. I don’t believe in sharing.” He says it almost flirtily, and I’m surprised at how much I like that tone. As much as I like the accidental brush of our fingers. Translation: more than I should.

  But since I’m one week post breakup and still missing the good things about David, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be liking anyone’s tone or touch.

  Note to self: find a pill that makes you immune to handsome men making flirty comments when you’re still licking your wounds.

  “Hey!” a familiar voice calls out. “You’re not keeping those to yourself.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I say as the dark-haired Shaw walks around the truck.

  “I smell something good.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gabe promptly stuffs the Tupperware under his shirt.

  Shaw stops a few feet from me, lifting his chin. “Hey, Arden. What will it take for you to bring me some treats?” He waggles his eyebrows. “What did this fucker do to deserve some?”

  No way am I going to tell Shaw—or anyone for that matter—how Gabe earned all the treats in the world, so I offer up another truth. “He bought a book from my store. Wait. Correction. Many books.”
r />   “Ah, so that’s the trick. Maybe if I buy a tale or two sometime, you’ll make me something tasty?”

  Gabe claps him on the back, shaking his head. “You’d have to learn to read, then, Shaw. I know that’ll be mighty tough for you.”

  “Just like two plus two is for you.” Shaw flips him the bird as he returns to the other side of the truck.

  Once Shaw is gone, Gabe frees the Tupperware from its hiding place. “I’ll savor these, and maybe if I’m feeling generous, I’ll dole some out to the guys. But that’s highly unlikely since I’m a greedy bastard when it comes to delicious goodies. Which means I also ought to thank you for giving me new inspiration to run ten miles.”

  “Are you going to run off every single cookie-dough pretzel?” I ask, laughing.

  “Every damn one. I believe in working out so I can both save lives and never ever have to count calories.”

  “That’s because you can’t count,” Shaw shouts.

  Gabe rolls his eyes, sets a hand on my back, and walks me down the sidewalk, farther away from the guys. He opens the Tupperware and takes a bite of a pretzel. He rolls his eyes and moans in pleasure, and the sound of his appreciation sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Or perhaps it’s not so unexpected, given how I reacted to the brief touch, then to his sexy tone.

  “Holy shit. These are criminally good,” Gabe says.

  I beam. “I’m so glad you like them.” Then I clear my throat and lower my voice so my next words are definitely only for us. Part of my thank you. “Also, if you ever need anything . . .” I say, and before it veers into coming-on-to-him territory, I pick up the pace, “like a book, or a crossword puzzle, or a wine recommendation, let me know.” And that might still sound like a pickup line. He probably thinks I’m an emotional wreck anyway, so it’s best to let him know I’m not trying to make a move. “As friends. If you need a friend.”

  My nerves somersault. I’m twenty-nine, and I just asked a guy to be friends with me. That’s not normal, is it? That’s either awkward or weird or . . . nice.

  I shudder at the last one.

  But Gabe seems to make everything look simple. He motions for me to come closer. “Do you like Words with Friends?”

  A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “Like gin loves tonic.”

  All the nerves fly away.

  We exchange handles—MustLoveBooks for me, and CurveballorBust for him—and he thanks me once more for the treats, holding my gaze. “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  And that’s exactly what it becomes over the next year, proving there’s nothing at all wrong with being nice, since that’s how we met—him being nice to me, and being nice in return.

  Except I can’t shake the feeling that being nice isn’t all there is, especially when I start to feel I might like a little naughty.

  5

  Gabe

  One year later

  * * *

  “Your mom was here earlier. Let me see if Michael is ready for another visitor,” the redheaded nurse tells me.

  “Thanks, Darla,” I say, and she gives me a flirty little sway of her hips as she heads down the hall of the assisted living home. I park myself in a leather chair in the fifth-floor lobby and return to the game on my phone.

  I scan the board quickly, eyeing the possibilities. R. I tap my chin. Something with an R. Or a C. Or maybe . . .

  I smile. Devilishly, I’m sure. Because I’m going to mess with Arden. Peering down the hallway, I see no sign of the nurse, so I open the chat with MustLoveBooks.

  * * *

  Gabe: Is R-A-B-E a word?

  * * *

  Arden: As in broccoli rabe? Yes. Whether it should be considered a food is debatable though.

  * * *

  Gabe: What in the holy hell is broccoli rabe? Why isn’t it just broccoli? Why do we need to keep adding things to vegetables?

  * * *

  Arden: Don’t you know? Vegetables now must be hipster hybrids of other vegetables. Also, rabe is the stalky, leafy part of the vegetable, if you want to get technical.

  * * *

  Gabe: You mean the part of the veggie that should go in the recycling bin?

  * * *

  Arden: Let me guess. You hate broccolini too.

  * * *

  Gabe: I’m not fooled by broccolini. If someone can’t tell that word is a patent ruse to trick people into thinking broccoli is cute, they’re a fool.

  * * *

  Arden: Obviously, you’re no fool. You are a broccoli hater though. Now c’mon, play a word. A customer just walked in, and if my book-buying radar is still top-notch, I’m predicting he snags a hardback of the new Koontz.

  * * *

  Gabe: If you’re right, bowling is on me.

  * * *

  As I planned all along, I form a word with my kickass bank of letters, and I swear I can hear her jaw dropping as I play—BROCCOLI.

  * * *

  Arden: You tricked me by building off my C!! I thought you were spelling RABE.

  * * *

  Gabe: Rabe is child’s play. *blows on fingers*

  * * *

  Arden: And you used all your letters! You know I have to pay for bowling now. That trumps everything else.

  * * *

  Gabe: Oh, well, what do you know? I did play all my letters.

  * * *

  Arden: Also, the customer has the new Koontz tucked under his arm.

  * * *

  Gabe: Damn, you’re sharp. But close is only good in horseshoes. Bowling’s still on you.

  * * *

  I exit the app when the thunk of Darla’s shoes grows louder. She turns the corner and wiggles her fingers, giving me come-hither eyes, too, as she’s done for the last few visits. “I’ll take you to Suite 505 now.”

  Once I stand, she sets a hand on my arm, even though I know precisely where Suite 505 is since I’ve been visiting its resident as often as possible for a year now.

  But Darla is persistent, and last time I checked, I was still single . . . ergo . . .

  “My shift ends at five,” she says.

  “Good to know.”

  “And I don’t have any plans tonight.”

  “Is that so?” I arch a brow.

  She gives me the flirtiest smile in the history of smiles. “That is very much so.”

  I tell her to enter her number in my phone, and it takes less time than a peregrine falcon capturing a fish for her to type in those digits. I give her mine too.

  “Text ya later.” She spins on her heel and heads the other way.

  I turn into Suite 505 and flash a smile to the man slouched in the blue upholstered chair, staring at the screen of the laptop perched on a bureau. I check out the action on the diamond. “Pops, are you watching last night’s Giants game?”

  “Yup. Posey hit a three-run homer.”

  But when I peer more closely at the screen, that’s not Buster Posey running the bases. In fact, that’s not who the Giants are playing this week. I’m pretty sure that’s a game from last season.

  “Pops, that looks like a game from last season,” I say, gently trying to guide him back to the present.

  He waves it off, tsking at the video. “You could have mowed him down with your curveball.”

  I laugh and clap him on the shoulder. “Doubtful, but glad you think so.”

  “I know so. I watched all your games.”

  That he did.

  I settle in and enjoy the year-old game with him, catching up on things that happened yesterday and years ago, too, reminding him as best I can of what took place when.

  Later that day, Darla texts me, asking if I want to get together.

  I say yes, even though I’m wishing I could figure out the best way to broach the same subject with Arden.

  Do you want to see a movie? Grab some dinner? Go to a beer festival? Drive to Calistoga and check out a bookstore there I know you’ll love? Play mini golf over in Whiskey Hollows?

  Thos
e are all remarkably easy to say when asking someone out. Remarkably easy to say to Arden too.

  Trouble is, when you become good mates with a woman, it’s hard to tell her that you think you might want more than just Words with Friends. You might want more than friends in general. Especially since I’ve never been known as the serious kind, and Arden most definitely isn’t a casual girl.

  That night I take out Darla. She’s upbeat and fun, and a whole lot of flirty, but everything feels like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

  I’m more distracted than I want to be on a date, and this is getting to be the norm for me.

  And that’s a problem.

  6

  Gabe

  Arden’s busy with a customer, so I slip into her store unnoticed a few days later, and head straight for the mysteries. Pawing through the tomes, I find what I’m looking for.

  The big orange beast.

  If he’s not parked in the window, he’s often curled up by the newest titles. I suspect he likes the smell of the pages.

  And yup, there he is, sprawled across a middle shelf, purring in front of the new Mary Higgins Clark. I reach for it, and the cat swats my arm. “Don’t you want me to support your mistress’s business?”

  Henry twitches his tail, and clearly that means a big fat no.