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

Never mind.

At least it had protein. Unlike donuts.

And donuts were what I’d really wanted today.

How about that for self-control?

I closed the brochure and grabbed my coffee, picking up my phone and checking it. There were no messages or missed calls, so I flicked to Instagram and scrolled the feed. There were a ton of book images that I absolutely adored—known in the reader world as bookstagram—but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull off such a thing by myself.

All things considered, Bookworm’s Books’ Instagram account was woeful. The only good pictures we had consisted of Saylor modeling all our new shirts, and the occasional shot of Kinsley drinking from one of our mugs.

The actual books… Not so much.

Hmm.

I tucked the thoughts away as I liked one last photo and locked my phone. The door to the storeroom opened and Saylor stepped in, wrapping her scarf around her neck.

“I’m going to see the ancients,” she said, referring to the retirement home where our grandparents caused havoc on a daily basis. “Do you need anything? Or want me to pass any derogatory messages to your grandmother?”

“Well, I’d ask you to tell her to behave herself, but we all know that won’t happen.” My grandmother wouldn’t know how to behave if a behavioral book broke her hip. “Can you stop by the post office and drop off those orders?”

She looked in the direction I was pointing. “I don’t have to stand there and mail them, do I? I don’t need Margaret Miyazaki coming in and trying to marry me off to her grandson again.”

I fought back a snort at the memory of last week. We’d stopped by the post office to mail a bunch of shirts and books because our printer had broken so we couldn’t get our premade labels. Margaret Miyazaki ran the craft store next to the post office and came out, insisting Saylor joined her for dinner to meet her grandson who was new in town.

That conversation had gone down like a lead balloon with Saylor. Since the last guy she was seeing had really screwed her over by two-timing her, she’d dyed her hair pink and had sworn off dating.

I thought she was having some kind of quarter-life crisis, and she told me to stop drinking.

It would have been more effective if she hadn’t had a glass of wine in her hand at the time.

Also, I needed to drink to put up with my friends.

And my grandmother.

And my sister.

Basically, everyone.

I was not a very tolerant person, obviously.

“Earth to Holley.” Saylor snapped her fingers. “Come back to me!”

I blinked and looked at her. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Do I have to mail them?” she repeated.

Right. Margaret. “No. They’re already labeled; they just need to be dropped off. You shouldn’t have to see Margaret at all.”

“Thank God for that.” She zipped up her coat and grabbed the big bag of parcels. “If she accosts me, you owe me dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I tucked my phone in the pocket of my sweater and followed her out to the store.

“I’m not kidding!” she called as she bumbled her way out the door, struggling not to hit the frame with the huge bag of orders.

She failed.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the books from the tables. Thankfully, they were all new releases, so I carried them over to that table near the door and stopped.

It was a mess.

Damn it.

Well, at least that gave me something to do.

I pulled each title off and started a stack on the chairs nearby. Within minutes, the table was completely empty, and I set about rearranging the books so it looked more appealing.

The bell over the door dinged when I was halfway through. “I’ll be right there,” I said over my shoulder, setting a book on a stand on top of a stack. “Just a second.”

“Don’t rush just for me.”

Oh, hell no.

I knew that voice. It was deeper than I remembered, but I’d still know it anywhere.

Sebastian Stone.

My heart stopped. Dead. Just ike that.

That was it.

I was dead now.

RIP me.

I swallowed, then slowly looked over my shoulder at the man who was once my best friend.

He was tall, at least six-foot-three, and his body was muscled and filled out in perfect proportion to his height. His curly black hair was scruffy and pushed back from his face, like he’d run his fingers through it in frustration ten times before he’d come in here, and his jaw was covered in a rough black stubble that looked a little too long to have been trimmed recently.

But it was his eyes.

He’d always had the bluest, most amazing eyes, and that hadn’t changed. Now, they pierced into me, shining with the amusement that was reflected in the smirk that curved his lips.

“What? Have I changed that much?” He held his hands out at his sides, and his watch glinted off the weak winter sunlight that shone through the window. “Surely you’ve seen me a few times in the last few years.”