The Bookworm's Guide to Faking It (The Bookworm's Guide 2)

ME: Sounds kinky.HOLLEY: With my gun, asshole.ME: Still kinda kinky.HOLLEY: See if you feel the same when you’re licking them off the frozen sidewalk.ME: And there goes the sexiness.HOLLEY: Good. Now go away. Some of us have work to do.ME: I’m sure owning a bookstore is hard.HOLLEY: You ever moved a weekly delivery of books around? I bet I have bigger biceps than you.ME: Ask me nicely on Saturday and I’ll show you mine.HOLLEY: I’d rather gauge out my eyeballs with a dessert spoon.ME: Always so friendly.HOLLEY: You’re welcome. Have a nice day now.Laughing, I set down my phone and looked at my sister, who was staring at me with one eyebrow raised. “She’s coming to the ceremony.”

All confusion petered out from her expression and she grinned, clapping her hands in glee. “Yay! Oh, Seb, this is going to be the best day ever!”

Given that she’d just asked for liquor in her coffee, I was going to withhold judgment until after the weekend had passed.***I finished the last exercise that Elliott, my physical therapist, had insisted I do twice a day, and took a shower. The second I stepped under the hot water, the ache in my shoulder lessened, and I took a few moments to breathe it in and just let the muscles rest before I had to wash up and get out.

The moments didn’t last long enough.

I washed off and got out, then wrapped a towel around my waist on my way to my bedroom.

I’d bought this house three years ago and never lived it in for longer than a couple of weeks until now. There was always something to do, somewhere to go, someone who needed me.

Now, the only something to do was recover, the only place to go was here, and the only person who needed me was… me.

Maybe I needed to get a dog or something.

I stopped.

Hey. A dog!

That wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

It was definitely one for the old memory box, just in case my recovery didn’t go as planned.

I dried off and got changed into some sweats and a t-shirt. I followed it up quickly with a zip-up sweater since it was fucking cold, then I headed downstairs to get some breakfast.

I’d left my phone on the island, so I grabbed it off the dark granite counter and checked the notifications while I turned on the coffee machine. There was a voice message from my coach asking how I was doing, so I shot him off a text letting him know I was fine and that Elliott was happy with my progress so far. Another voice message from my mom accompanied five missed calls.

I winced as I listened to that lecture about not answering my phone.

You know. Like I’d died in the fucking shower.

I hit the call back button as the machine finished spitting out my coffee.

“Sebastian!” Mom trilled down the line. “There you are!”

“I’m sorry that me taking a shower was an inconvenience for you, Mother,” I said dryly.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s better.” She paused. “Are you really bringing Holley to the wedding?”

My nostrils flared. It’d taken her long enough. It’d been two days since I’d seen my sister. “Yes. Why?”

“I was just wondering. I didn’t know you’d reconnected.”

“Well, now you do.”

“I don’t care who you are, Sebastian Stone, I will take you over my knee and beat your ass if you keep giving me attitude.”

“No attitude,” I said quickly. “Just conversing. I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“Mmm.” The line crackled. “Well, your shoes have been delivered to our house instead of yours and you need to come get them.”

“The wedding shoes?”

“No, Sebastian, your flip-flops for this sub-tropical weather we’re having.”

I glanced out the window at the thin layer of ice that had settled on the grass and coated my large front yard. Even my truck held a layer of white, icy shit on it.

Now who had the attitude?

“They were supposed to go to your house,” I replied. “Like the suit. Remember?”

“No.”

“Ask Kate. I didn’t organize any of this. I’m just paying for the venue and being a good brother.”

She harrumphed. “Keep your phone line clear. And put it on ring. This is a very important time in your sister’s life!”

“Understood. Bye, Mom.” I hung up and immediately dialed my sister. Before she could say a word, I said, “Momzilla is calling you.”

“Motherfu—”

I cut her off before she could finish her curse, knowing that Mom would already be trying to get through.

Honestly, that woman needed to be in the White House.

She got shit done.

World poverty? Cured in six months. Virus outbreaks? She’d verbally beat them into submission. Terrorists? She’d have them confessing in two minutes and begging for the death penalty by lunchtime.

Trust me.

I’d begged for it once or twice in my life.

I picked up my mug and went to the living room. Recovery was a weird business—I was so used to doing something, to training, to being busy, that the knowledge that I had absolutely nothing to do other than get my shoulder better was almost haunting.