3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

" L yric!" I bellow at the top of my lungs. My hands strained to the max with an insurmountable volume of books that could make Atlas himself buckle under its weight. I wince as the pile begins to sway precariously to the right, threatening to catapult me into a sea of literature. "Oh, heavens! Lyric! Where art thou, bitch?"

"I'm here! I'm here!" she cries back, just as the leaning tower leans a pube-hair too far. Panic sets in as I try to steady myself but end up crashing shoulder-first into a colossal oak bookcase. "Son of a biscuit!"

Her hands clasp mine as we labor together, sweat and tears streaming down our faces, determined to rescue every single word before they plummet to their demise. With panting breaths, we work in unison, and she takes half the bookish burden. Together we shuffle toward the stockroom, her leading the way, cautiously avoiding any potential hazards.

"Watch your step," she warns gently, tossing a glance over her delicate shoulder.

I roll my eyes. "It was an accident. Don't be a fusspot—" My pump snags on something that's invisible to the naked eye, and I stumble forward, my grip on the books tighter than a boa constrictor. We both freeze, our eyes locked in terror. "What are the odds of us sweeping this under the rug?"

She blinks twice quickly before shaking her head and letting out an exasperated sigh. "Zero. Zilch. Nada." She pivots on her heels and resumes our journey.

Lyric gingerly places her stack onto an overflowing stock table before quickly helping me unload my own books. I take a moment, allowing myself to appreciate this monumental event.

After years of owning DNF together, this part never gets old. When we first started this used bookstore, it was an uphill battle to get people to donate books. But after an aggressive marketing plan, people in the community started to take notice. Now, we receive over a hundred books per month! Books that would otherwise be tossed into the abyss, or worse, converted into doggy pee pads!

The thought alone makes me shudder.

"This donation was a boatload," she murmurs, caressing each one's spine with a nurturing touch.

I pick up the first book in my pile and agree. "Yep, but it's all for a worthy cause. Any books we can't sell will be donated to the event. They'll find a home, eventually."

Lyric shoots me a cautious look. "But what about the goats?"

My eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Goats?"

"Yeah…" She wrinkles her button nose as she lifts an ancient-looking book to inhale its aroma. "It's a farm, Story. They have goats there. What if they start eating the books?"

I nod in agreement with her concern. "We'll have to be vigilant."

"Maybe we should rethink those guards," she suggests. I weigh our options, considering the cost of hiring our own security team for the event. It's not a bad idea.

Next month, DNF is hosting a community event at Duckblind Farm, where ducks see with their hearts instead of their eyes. The owners' goal is to rehabilitate every visually impaired duck in Massachusetts. Kids and families from all over Salem will assemble to read stories to those on duck-row getting ready to exchange their yellow wings for white ones.

We're donating books on their last page for ducks on their last feather. It's poetic, really.

"We're doing God's work," I sniffle, choking back a tear.

Lyric pats my back reassuringly. "I know, right?"

I wipe the tears from my eyes, and we begin to work on sorting our intakes. A mere trickle of customers comes in and out, but it's disappointingly slow, so we're able to power through our task without interruption. Before long, my mind begins to wander as it usually does. Being surrounded by tales of far and wide is an all-consuming experience that can make anyone lose themselves in their imagination.

Me, frolicking in another world, a golden dress swirling around my ethereal body. I can practically feel the rolling green hills beneath my bare feet, can nearly taste the delicious grass. All around me, faeries with pretty pointed ears flit with mirth. Above me, the skies are purple and a unicorn flies by because magic genuinely exists.

I'm in a world where true love's kiss can heal a broken heart, and everyone has a fated mate. Someone who will love you unconditionally, regardless of how much of a troll you are when you wake up. They will not only adore every inch of your body—even the divots, winding curves, and cottage cheese thighs—but would raze the world for just a tiny taste of your yummy mate-dew.

Yeah, I internally swoon. That's a world I could get down with.

It's magical.

It's wondrous.

It's books .

And I want it more than my next breath.

"Fuck, I'm starving," Lyric groans, breaking me from my reverie. I jump with such a loud screech that we both nearly fall over. My eyes flit around wildly, realizing that the entire stock room is sorted and tidy, the usually overflowing tables clear from mountains of books.

I glance at the windows that make up the front of the shop and bite my lip when I notice that the sun is going down.

Shit. Shit. Triple shit!

I quickly snatch my phone from my cardigan pocket and check the time. My shoulders drop. I still have a few hours to get ready for my date. A little unread notification pops up on the dating app another customer recommended, Cummies 4 Dummies , and my gut twists. Fuck. I bet he's canceling last minute. It wouldn't be the first time. Dating in your thirties is hard and the more I do it, the clearer my consensus has become: Men suck donkey dicks.

With immense relief, I breathe out when I see his message confirming our plans to meet at a bar in the town over at eight. My stomach twists, and I drop into my favorite overstuffed green velvet chair with a nervous moan.

"Crud-muffin," I mutter under my breath as all the usual pre-date jitters start to kick in.

Lyric shoots me a worried look and I try to offer her a reassuring smile. She hates when I'm upset. Waving her off, I quickly tap out a response to Bud, letting him know I'm still coming. My pussy tingles and I smirk. If I have it my way, I'll definitely be coming tonight.

"What's wrong?" Lyric asks as she starts working through closing tasks. "Why do you look like you're going to puke—" she breaks off, her eyes narrowing as she takes me in. "Wait. That's your horny face. You're going to puke and for some reason, that makes you wet…"

She shudders and my mouth drops open. "I am not horny!" Lies . "I'm not going to puke, either!" Lies . "I'm fine." So many lies . "Great, actually. Just sleepy." I force a yawn, picturing the way I'm going to burn in a fiery pit of deception.

She scoffs. "Right. And I wouldn't give both my tits and ovaries for a chance to fuck Jamie Fraser."

We share a knowing look. Lyric is obsessed with highlander men. I'm pretty sure she'd give more than that for a chance to have sex with a real Scottsman. Not that I blame her. I can see the appeal in a kilt. Easy access and all that. But for her, it's more than the kilt. It's the rippling abs and flowing red locks. The whole, deliciously Fabio-esque package.

So not my type.

The ache in my honeypot grows as an image of my dream man fills my mind.

First off, there's no way he'll ever have better hair than me. My shoulder-length bob is thinner than a coked-up, vegan bikini model in Boca. My dream dude's hair is minimal and discrete, not flowing down to his bubble butt in angelic waves. He's tall, but not too tall. Just large enough for me to feel small, not overwhelmed. The idea of a man lording over me makes my skin crawl.

I love big men, not tall men.

A shudder works its way through me, and I shove up out of the chair, hoping she doesn't notice. Clearing my throat, I move to draw the curtains, giving her my back. "I have a date tonight," I say flatly, though my body tenses for her reaction.

Three. Two. One.

"Oh, holy fuck-nuggets, Story! What the shitballs?!"

I cringe at her shrill voice. Slowly, I turn to face her. My bestie may be five years younger than me, and a few inches shorter, but right now, the angry look etched across her sweet face is enough to make me feel like a child again. Thoroughly chastised and unfortunately disappointing.

"What the shitballs, what?" I murmur, barely resisting the urge to run and hide. I hate confrontation. "Something wrong, love of my life?"

She scoffs. "Don't loml me. We're in a fight right now!"

I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. "A fight? What? Why?"

"You know why," she hisses, pointing a finger at me. "You're on a dating ban! You promised you'd get off that app for a while."

"You're on the app," I point out, deflecting.

"I'm not the one with an addiction to finding shitty men and hoping to cure them with my cooter!" I jerk back as though I've been slapped, her diagnosis of my mental-state, all too accurate. With a sigh, her finger drops and her expression softens. "You're supposed to be healing, not humping."

Grimacing, I shuck off the thoughts of my ex, Chadwick, before they can take root. "I'm all done healing."

"Did you read that book I got you?" She asks gently.

"Of course." The first three chapters, at least. It was boring, but I got the gist of it easily enough. Psychology's not that difficult.

She nods. "Good. I'm proud of you." Her head tilts and she grins. "You are doing remarkably well considering it's only been—"

"It's been six months, Lyr," I interrupt. "I'm fine."

Totally fine.

He didn't hurt me— that bad.

Except that he ran off with your mom, a little voice coos, reminding me of the unforgettable. And your dad .

My grimace turns to a cringe.

Don't forget the family dog, Spunkers.

I flinch. Fuck. Somehow, the damn dog hurt the worst.

She squints at me, her toe tapping in frustration. "Healed, are you?"

I bob my head absently, my mind too busy doing everything in its power to drag me down memory lane.

I lost my entire family in the blink of an eye, all because I wanted to bring my boyfriend home for Christmas. By New Years, Chadwick had broken up with me, stating he'd found someone else that made him happier. Gave him things I never could. It wasn't until they sent out a family Easter card that I realized the truth.

Apparently, what I couldn't give him was a geriatric three-way.

"And you're definitely not thinking about them, right?" I shake my head. Nope. Hell no. She clicks her tongue. "Fine. What's the new fuckers' name?"

A small smile crawls across my face. "Bud."

Lyric nods woodenly. "And what does Bud do for a living?"

I shrug. "Didn't get that far." Truth be told, there's not much information Bud and I exchanged beyond the basics. He asked the usual questions: Age? 32. Sex? Yes, fucking please. Location? Your bed or mine. Maybe a desk, or fuck, backseat of your Prius. Whatever, whenever, wherever.

Just as long as I can escape in the sweet bliss of orgasmic pleasure for a little while, I can turn my overactive brain off. It seems the only time I can quiet my mind is when my body is screaming with ecstasy. I'm perfectly aware it's not a healthy coping mechanism.

"Story…" She starts, trailing off with a frustrated huff.

Instead of letting her start on a second reality check, I snatch her up and bundle her in my arms. Patting her head, I murmur words I hope will ease her worries. "I'm good. Promise. Tonight will be great. I'll get in, get off, and get out. Then tomorrow, I'll delete the app and take a break from dating."

She squeezes me hard, then pulls away. "Promise?"

"Pinky swear." I offer her my finger. "After tonight, I'm done with men."

Lyric wraps her tiny finger around mine and we lean in, kissing our thumbs in a practiced bestie move. "Good. You'll feel better."

I smile, but my heart twists at the idea of being truly alone. I don't know if I can do it, but for her, and fuck, maybe for me, I have to try.

No more men, starting tomorrow.

My smile turns to a cheshire grin.

But tonight, Bud is taking his skin boat to tuna town, and I can't fucking wait!