Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“You want me to come with?”
I put on my best smile. “I’ll run in solo. It’s not like I’m helpless.”
He shrugs, hands up. “Sure thing, sweetheart. But if you’re not back in ten, I’m sending in a search party.”
I giggle and open the door. My boots hit the ground hard, the crunch of gravel loud in the thin air. I walk into the store, the bell chiming with a rusty clang, and grab a plastic basket by the door. The place smells like old coffee, gasoline, and rubber fishing boots. I do a slow circuit, filling the basket with the most random assortment I can manage—cheap shampoo, boxed mac and cheese, peanut M&Ms, and, on a whim, a box of condoms. Not that Talon loves birth control. He uses condoms sometimes, but there are also times when we forgot, and I feel a little panicky afterwards, yet also so feminine. The thought makes me blush, then it makes me angry, and then I don’t know how it makes me feel at all.
I duck into the “personal care” aisle, pretending to compare brands of deodorant, but really I’m scoping the exit in the back. There’s a faded “EMPLOYEES ONLY” sign on the door, but I push through anyway. I’m counting on the fact that nobody out here cares enough to yell. The back of the store is even colder, cluttered with crates and a mop bucket and a stack of dog food bags. There’s a narrow door that leads outside, and when I open it, the morning light is blinding.
I leave my basket on the floor and then step out, breathing hard. Then, I make my way down the muddy side alley. Two doors down is BookEnds, a used bookstore that doubles as the town’s only library and community center. Its sign is a battered shingle, hand-lettered and crooked, and the windows are so jammed with hand-written flyers and cut-out magazine ads that you can barely see inside. I wipe my palms on my jeans, then step up to the door and pull it open.
The bell above the door is a proper, old-timey jingle, and the inside of BookEnds is everything I want life to be: worn pine floors, the faint tang of mildew, and more books than any rational person could read in a hundred years. The walls are lined with mismatched shelves, many bowing in the middle, and the aisles are a maze of rotating paperback towers. There’s a fireplace at the back, and in front of it is a battered armchair that looks like it’s grown roots. The place is so familiar it makes my teeth ache.
A middle-aged woman with grey hair is behind the counter, perched on a stool, her locks swept up into a messy, artful bun that’s held together by two pencils and a sprig of rosemary. She’s got on a thick, dark cardigan and a pair of blue jeans so perfectly faded they might be older than me. She looks up from her stack of returns and gives me a smile that’s all teeth and caffeine.
“Hi, welcome to BookEnds. I’m Renee, the owner. Can I help you find something?”
I nod hesitantly.
“Actually, I’m trying to find a book by an author from around here. He’s a reclusive mountain man, allegedly. You may have heard of him - Talon McKnight. He’s really famous.”
Renee laughs. “Mr. McKnight’s a legend. Everyone here’s got a story about our local celebrity. You want the gossip, or the official line?”
I slide up to the counter, arms crossed. “Maybe both. Actually, do you have any of his books? I promised I’d read at least one before I judged him.”
She perks up, eyes wide. “You haven’t? Girl, you’re missing out.”
“I know,” I say, nodding.
Renee hops off the stool and leads me to a shelf marked “Local Interest.” There’s an entire row of thrillers, all with the same stark design: block lettering, a splash of red, and Talon’s name so big it looks like a threat. She pulls one down and hands it to me, tapping the cover.
“That’s his best, in my opinion. The one about the serial killer who can’t stop quoting Shakespeare. Real crowd-pleaser.”
I flip it over. The author photo is old, maybe five years ago, but my man still looks brooding and severe, and ungodly handsome. I almost laugh at the contrast between the photo and the man who cuddles me under a wool blanket and calls me “Kitten.”
I thumb through the pages. “Do you know if he ever writes romance?” I ask, forcing the words to sound casual.
Renee barks a laugh so loud it startles me. “Romance? God, no. If Talon McKnight ever wrote a romance, it’d be about a contract killer falling for his mark. Maybe he has a softer side, but if so, it’s buried under two hundred pounds of muscle and a lot of bad habits.”