Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “What?”
“Berlin is Donovan’s ex,” he says. “They dated pretty much all through high school and off and on in college. There might have been an engagement somewhere in there . . . I don’t really know what happened after that because, well, I had more important things to worry about than my brother’s dating life. I can only assume it didn’t end well.”
“Why didn’t she say hi to you, then?” I ask.
“I don’t think she even noticed me. She was too fixated on you the whole time.”
Thoughts swim through my head as I reexamine all her lingering glances in a different light. I thought something seemed off . . .
Lachlan plucks a pale-blue card from a holder and flips it open to read it before putting it back.
“You’d think with all the writing talent in the world today, greeting card writers would’ve upped their game a little,” he says. “I could write better drivel than this.”
“Then do it.”
“My sentiments wouldn’t be mainstream enough for the greeting card masses.”
Donovan was a writer. He was always scribbling away in his notebook . . . ideas, prose, poetry. He mentioned once that he’d written an entire novel by hand when he was in his younger days. He promised he’d let me read it one day. Obviously that day never came, and I can’t begin to know which box in the attic contains all his writings, nor do I have any desire to explore them.
“Maybe you should get a blank card then,” I say. “Write your own message.”
“Unfortunately, the only blank card I’ve found in this rack is a sympathy card. I’m in the market for one of the birthday variety. By the way, who sells greeting cards at a used-book store?”
“They’re vintage.” I head over to help him hunt for the perfect one. “Some people think greeting cards are overrated. Florence, the owner of this shop, loves them. She’s saved every one she’s ever received. I think her collection is somewhere in the thousands.”
“What about you? Do you collect anything?” he asks.
“Names,” I say.
I select a white birthday card with yellow lace edging and flip it open to find an empty white space begging for the perfect words.
“Here you go.” I hand it over. “It’s blank. Now you can write anything your heart desires.”
He swipes it from me, and our fingers brush. My eyes lock on his, and for a second, I can’t breathe. It’s like looking into Donovan’s eyes. A rush of blissful ignorance is followed by the sharp tang of anger, flooding my thoughts with everything I’ll never get to say to the man who changed my life forever.
Turning away, I walk back to the counter, collecting myself with each step. By the time I get there, I’ve taken three deep breaths and the pressure welling in my chest has faded.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” I ask. It’s strange being cordial with the man trying to take my home, but this is Flo’s store, and he’s a paying customer, and I’m a grown woman capable of acting like one.
“Yeah.” He rakes his hand along his stubbled jaw and peers around the shop. “You have any Hunter S. Thompson?”
“I don’t know who that is, but I can look?”
“You work in a bookstore, and you’ve never heard of one of the greatest American writers in the twentieth century?”
“What did he write?”
“Generation of Swine . . . The Curse of Lono . . . The Rum Diary . . . Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—”
“Oh! The movie with Johnny Depp.” I perk up. “I’ve seen that one.”
“The movie based on the book, but yes. That one.”
“Sorry, not a reader.” I offer an apologetic shrug.
I head for the fiction section, and he follows, his boots heavy on the wood floor with each confident stride.
Scanning the T shelf, I pause when I get to the place where Thompson should be.
“I’m sorry. I don’t see anything . . .” I bite my lip. “I’m sure Flo can order one, though. She orders lots of stuff for me.”
“Thought you weren’t a reader?”
“Baby-name books,” I clarify. “For my business.”
He scratches the space above his eyebrow.
“I’m a name consultant,” I tell him. “For babies. Mostly. I’ve done some pet names . . . and I guess I just promised Berlin I’d help her name her flower shop . . .”
His gaze skims over me from head to toe. “That’s a thing?”
“Everything is a thing,” I say, head tilted. “But yeah. Anyway, can I help you with anything else, or are we ready to check out with your blank vintage greeting card?”
Lachlan’s brows rise, and he scans his surroundings. “Kind of wanted to do a little browsing but seems like you’re ready to get me out of your hair.”
He checks his watch—which I can’t help but notice is an antique piece and not a mass-produced Bluetooth-enabled device.