The Lucky in Love Collection Page 4

  “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?

  Those 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.

  I reach around him. He swipes at me again. “I think you might be bad for business if you keep that up.”

  He stretches, raises his furry chin, and shoots me a look of utter disdain before jumping off the shelves and sauntering haughtily away, tail high in the air.

  I grab the novel. Tucking it under my arm, I make a beeline for the magazines and crossword puzzles, snagging a new book.

  I peer around the corner, and Arden’s back at the counter, head bent to study the computer screen, and damn does she look good today. Her blonde hair is piled high in one of those crazy buns. Whoever designed those buns should be given an award. On the surface, they shouldn’t be attractive. It’s a fucking bun, after all. But there’s just something about that swept-up-and-still-a-little-messy look that revs my engine. Maybe it’s the way that hairdo highlights her gorgeous cheekbones and accentuates lips that I know must be sinfully soft.

  Or maybe it’s that every little thing this woman does seems to get me going. That smile, her mind, her laughter . . . Truth is, I was thinking about Arden more than I was thinking about Darla on that date the other night. Thinking what it would take to have Arden sitting across from me at a restaurant as more than a buddy.

  I head straight for the counter, plunking down the books with a thump. “You were busy, so Henry recommended these. Oh wait, he actually tried to attack me.”

  Arden startles then looks up and smiles. “Do you need me to get out my first aid kit and take care of all those terrible cat scratches he left on your arms?” She peers down. “Oh wait. You don’t have any.”

  “I’m just saying. He’s vicious.”

  “He’s sweet.”

  I laugh. “We might have different definitions of the word ‘sweet.’”

  “We might indeed.” She arches an eyebrow then slides me the books. “Your money’s no good here. Take them.”

  I sigh. “No way. You can’t do that.”

  She nods and gives a satisfied grin. “I can, and I will.”

  “Honestly, I’d like to pay. This one is for my mom and the other’s for me.”

  Her smile shifts to one
of curiosity. “Your mom’s the one you buy the mysteries for?”

  “You notice what I buy?”

  “I do indeed. Maybe I’m a book spy.”

  “Well, 007, you’ve discovered my secret. I shop for my mom. She devours mysteries. She got that from her dad—my pops loves mysteries too. The more hard-boiled the better.”

  “The hard-boiled ones are a hoot. As for your mom, if she likes wine, tell her this Mary Higgins Clark pairs deliciously with a Bordeaux, since those wines are a little mysterious.”

  “I’ll pass that on. She’ll get a kick out of that.”

  “That’s nice that you buy so many books for your mom.”

  “I told you that day at Silver Phoenix Lake—nice is a good thing.” I take out my wallet, fish around for a couple twenties, and set them on the counter.

  “Gabe. Let me give these books to you.”

  I lean closer, shaking my head. “Let me support your business.”

  She screws up the corner of her lips, sighs, then holds up a finger. “Be right back.”

  A minute later she returns with a new hardcover. Glancing from side to side, she slides it over to me. “It’s the new Sandra Brown. It doesn’t come out for a few more days. Give it to your mom as a gift.”

  She gives me the change from the bills, and I thank her. “She’ll love it.”

  And she does, indeed, when I head over for dinner and give the book to my mom.

  “You win the prize for my best son ever,” she says to me as she clutches the book.

  “Was there anyone else in competition?” I tease, since I’m her only son.

  “Hmm. You’re right. But I still like you a whole helluva lot.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you.” She winks as she settles into the couch with her book then shoots me a genuine, “Thank you so much.”

  Later that night, there’s a new game of Words with Friends waiting for me, and the first word Arden has played is CURIOUS.

  I want to read something into it, but mostly I’m damn impressed she led with a seven-letter word.

  When my shift starts the next morning, we’re called to a small warehouse fire, and handling that blaze is a hell of a lot easier than trying to use a word game to decipher a woman.

  7

  Arden

  Men make no sense to me.

  Like right now.

  I’m on my turf, in my zone, recommending the right wine to go with the right book all night long like I’m a rock star at this, and I am. The whole time this guy keeps staring at me.

  He’s been here the last few nights, so I think he’s a local.

  He’s handsome, with a square jaw and close-cropped brown hair. He wears a white dress shirt and a checkered tie, so I guess he’s in banking or law.

  Every night he buys a book, drums his fingers on the counter, and smiles before he asks me how I’m doing.

  Every night I smile back and say, “Great.”

  Fine, I know I’m not like my friend Perri, smooth and cool when handling men. But she’s a cop, and I’m a—well, I’m the good girl in the crew. Virgin till twenty. Serious boyfriend in college. Another serious boyfriend in my mid-twenties. Then David.

  That’s it. I’ve been with three guys. I’ve never played the pickup game. I’ve never even been on a dating app. And I’ve never made a move on a customer, even though Mr. Businessman has great taste. Last night he purchased Kristen Hannah’s The Nightingale. The evening before it was Hidden Figures. Each time he asked me if I liked the books. Of course, I told him.

  I mean, really.

  They’d have to take away my license as a bookstore proprietor if I didn’t adore those works.

  Tonight, Mr. Businessman makes his way to the counter, a paperback tucked under his arm. There’s a gray tie knotted on the cover, and I blink. Is that book what I think it is?

  “Hey. How are you?” He grins at me a little sheepishly.

  “Terrific. How are you?”

  “Fantastic.” He sets down the book, taps his finger against the knot, and meets my gaze. “I’ve heard so much about this book, I figured I should probably read it.” He lowers his voice, glances from side to side. “But don’t tell the guys at my office, ’kay?”

  I bring my finger to my lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  He smiles as I ring the purchase up. “Great. I figure it can’t hurt to know what women want these days.”

  He’s buying the book to better understand the fairer sex? Okay, I’m down with that, I suppose. “Smart man. A lot of women definitely still like reading this book.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love it, then.” He clears his throat and fixes his eyes straight on me. “Do you like it?” The words come out staccato. Like he truly wants to know what I think of Fifty Shades of Grey.

  And this is why men make no sense.

  Is he asking if I like being tied up? Does he want to know if I enjoyed the story? Is he asking my advice so he knows if it’s a good gift for his girlfriend?

  I answer truthfully. “It’s a fun book. I can see why it was so popular.”

  My reply earns another smile. “Good to know.”

  I tuck the receipt between the pages. “Here you go.”

  He doesn’t leave. “So, I’ve noticed you’re here all the time. I trust this is your store?”

  “My baby. Opened it five years ago. Love it, especially the book clubs.”

  “I like what you do here. It’s more than just books that have people coming in.”

  Does he mean me? Or . . . “Well, I do work with book clubs all around the county and set up book and wine events—pairing wine with different books.”

  “That’s awesome. Do you like wine?”

  “Like a hammer loves a nail,” I say, then I want to smack myself because does that sound like the worst come-on ever?

  But he doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s a great wine bar down the street if you ever want to . . .”

  I straighten my spine.

  Holy smokes. He’s asking me out. The handsome guy is asking me out.

  Men do make some sense.

  This computes.

  But before I can say, Why, yes, I’d love to, I catch a final glimpse of the tie on the cover. Nerves grab hold of my throat. They tighten their grip, strangling words, choking them to silence. What if this guy is like David? What if he wants some version of a woman I don’t know how to play? What if he’s looking for a naughty girl rather than a nice one?

  The nice girl in me answers, “Oh, that wine bar is great. You should totally go there.”

  I skedaddle to help another customer, nearly tripping over Clare, who gives me an imperious yellow-eyed stare for deigning to go near her.

  “I froze. I completely froze. Like that dumb statue.” I gesture to the dude riding the bronze horse as Perri and I walk through the town square later that night.

  “That is a seriously dumb statue. Want to topple it later?” she asks as she yanks her auburn hair into a tighter ponytail.

  “Yes, let’s deface public property. That’ll help me get over my complete deer-in-the-headlights moment.” I sigh and look at my good friend. “It gets better, right?”

  She pats my shoulder. “I want to be totally sympathetic and tell you it’s cool, no worries. But it’s not going to get better unless you take a leap and get back in the game. That guy did a number on you.”

  I picture David’s cutting words as he dropped me. “I know. And did I tell you that David is now engaged to the woman he started seeing after me? I can’t even hate him for being a cad. He just didn’t want me. He wanted her. They came into the store a week ago, and she was wearing a big fat ring.”

  Perri gives me a green-eyed sideways glance. “Sweetie, I’m not talking about David.”

  I stop at the edge of the square, furrowing my brow. “Who are you talking about, then?”

  “Phillipe.”

  “Phillipe?”

  She makes a rolling gesture with her
hands. “Phillipe. French guy you dated for four years when he was living here. The sexy winemaker.”

  “I know who Phillipe is. I’m just not understanding the comparison.”

  “One-position Phillipe. He loved missionary more than anything in the world. Except his grapes.”

  I laugh. “Well, yeah. He was absolutement in love with his grapes.”

  “More important, Phillipe is kind of all you knew when it came to men. So when David said you were too sweet, it’s only because you don’t know if you like spicy.”

  We turn the corner, and I arch a brow. “That’s the reason I froze in my store? Because I don’t know if I like spicy sex?”

  She nods. “Phillipe was pure vanilla.”

  For four years, Phillipe and I dated. He was wonderful—sweet and kind and a massive fan of being on top. In his defense, he was quite skilled at missionary, and we enjoyed the hell out of our horizontal time together. He reached all the spots he was supposed to reach including those starting with a G. But we never really ventured beyond that comfort zone, and the few times I asked, he never cared to mix it up.

  I missed him only a little bit when he returned to Europe a few years ago to take over his family’s vineyard in the Provence region.

  “Your theory is I simply don’t know what I might like in bed?” We wind our way toward our favorite bar.

  “Exactly. Phillipe vastly preferred one way, and with David, you never had the chance to explore.”

  Wow. How did I not realize it before? But her assessment is dead-on. Because of Phillipe I assumed most men liked sex the same way—on top, guy in charge, setting the pace. “I’ve only played it safe,” I say, a little sad.