The Bookworm's Guide to Dating (The Bookworm's Guide 1)

“Sounds good. How are we supposed to set the store up?”

We both looked at the store. We had a large open area to the front where we had the tables set out and some armchairs, giving it a light, airy feel that was more reminiscent of a library than a bookstore. Our huge windows definitely helped with that, and a glance at each other said we thought this was the best spot.

“I think she’s going to do a reading of the book and take some questions,” Holley said, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “So we’ll need some seating. I might have to call Andi and see if they can provide us with some extra chairs because there’s no way we can seat fifty people, and we can’t exactly ask them to stand.”

She tapped her chin with her pointer finger, and I didn’t bother to offer a response. I knew she wasn’t looking for one. She was figuring it all out in her brain and was probably ninety percent of the way to a solution by now.

I slipped back behind the register as a group of tourists in hiking gear came in through the door. Holley deftly stepped to the side to give them room, nodding absently when they asked if they could leave their backpacks on the table while they browsed.

They disappeared into the abyss that was Bookworm’s Books, and Holley followed them, veering off to the staffroom at the last second. No doubt she was going to open her laptop and fire off a very organized email to Andi the publicist about what our small-town store needed to pull off this signing.

I, however, checked my phone.

Josh had replied, but he’d completely ignored my question. Just as I’d suspected, to be honest. If there was a genuine answer for it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know it.

Which was why I’d asked.

Obviously.

I was clearly an emotional masochist, because there was no way I was going to let it go.

Even if I didn’t want to know the answer.

I saved the number that belonged to Elliott Anderson, physical therapist to the Montana Bears baseball team, and tossed back a flippant reply that I’d text him later when the store was quiet—like it a was a rave right now—and set my phone back down. His next reply was equally as flippant and dismissive, but I didn’t have a chance to respond again because the phone rang.

“Hello, Bookworm’s Books, Kinsley speaking. How can I help you?”

“Kins!” My brother’s voice crackled down the line. “Grandpa wants a book on ducks. Do you have one?”

I blinked several times in quick succession like I had something in my eye.

Boy, today was wild.

“Fictional or otherwise?” I asked.

“I don’t know, sis. I came to do an evaluation for the summerhouse they want to build and he accosted me at the site. I doubt he wants to read about the ugly duckling, though.”

“All right. He wants an idiot’s guide to raising ducks, basically.”

“Basically.” He chuckled. “Hey, did something happen last night?”

“Aside from the desperately terrible date?” I trapped the phone between my ear and shoulder as I hit the non-fiction section we kept. It was small compared to the fiction stuff, but big enough that we probably did have an idiot’s guide to raising ducks.

“Nah, after Josh went to yours. He’s been in the foulest fucking mood, and I fought with Amber this morning, so I’m not exactly a ray of sunshine myself.”

I paused. “No. Nothing happened.” What? That was only a half lie. “Maybe he didn’t sleep well.”

Colt grunted down the line. “Well, he was texting at lunch, then told me to fuck off. Did you say something to him?”

“Why do you assume it was me?”

“Because he was muttering about ‘fucking Kinsley,’ and correct me if I’m wrong, but your name isn’t exactly common enough to be on keyrings.”

Ah, personalized keyrings and mugs. Or rather, the lack of.

The bane of my childhood.

“I have no idea what I could have possibly done to annoy him,” I replied. Again, only half lying.

Well, a quarter.

Colt grunted again.

“You should get that grunting thing seen to,” I said whimsically, browsing the animal section. Chickens, guinea, more chickens—ah! “I found the duck books.”

“Great,” he said dryly. “Can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“We have one idiot’s guide to ducks. Want me to put it back for you?”

“Is it actually called idiot’s guide to ducks?”

“No. It’s called How to Raise Ducks And Other Poultry, but it’s all we’ve got.”

“Fine. Put it aside. I’ll swing by after work and get it for him. Unless you want to drop it over?”

“That’s a negative,” I replied. “I have to make money, and I have tomato plants to prune and feed tonight.”

“Such a cop out.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m the one carrying an idiot’s guide to ducks through the store.” I stepped back behind the register and tucked it under the counter with my Abigail Lyon book. “Gotta go. Let me know when you’re coming in.”