3. Nessa

Nessa

“ N ess, the box of L.J. Howard books came in.”

I looked up from my clipboard in time to see Xan, one of my part-time sales associates, lug a large cardboard box in from the back door and set it on the counter. Good thing one of us had upper body strength.

“Perfect timing,” I told them. “I was just wrapping up this week’s inventory check.”

“Do you want me to scan and stock them?” they asked, tapping the box with their pink-and-blue checkered coffin nails.

On top of being an excellent writer, who somehow balanced attending classes three days a week with slinging romance novels the rest of the time, Xan was also a wiz at nail art. I, on the other hand, could barely manage to paint my right hand, even after twenty or so years of practice.

“I’ll take care of it,” I told them. “You’re due for your lunch anyway.”

“Speaking of lunch, guess who I saw eating lunch at Petal last week?”

My nose wrinkled. Petal was the latest in a string of food carts that had set up shop across the street from the stadium. Rose City had brought in a lot more than fans when they’d inked the deal with the Roasters, major league baseball’s latest team—they’d brought in vegan food carts, too.

As a lifelong vegan, Xan was thrilled with this development. Personally, I preferred my food with a bit more . . . animal byproduct.

“Who?”

“Jared Pink,” they said, hearts practically bulging out of their eyes like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

Le sigh.

I longed to remember a time before I knew his name—the one that seemed to follow me everywhere I went. To my brother’s bar, which had become the unofficial, post-game watering hole for Roasters’ fans and players. At the high school, where I volunteered twice a month for an after-school romance book club. Most of the students ate, slept, and breathed in their Jared Pink jerseys. He had even managed to infiltrate more than one of my Dungeons the same can’t be said for relationships.”

“Why are you trying to burst my bubble?”

My lips kicked up. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I shooed them toward the front of the store, past the table of snarky candles and greeting cards that never failed to make me smile and the church mice gasp. “Now, please go get your oat milk latte and get back to vision boarding your wedding.”

“Do you want anything?”

I waved my hands, gesturing to the rows of shelves on either side of me. “I’m good. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

I wasn’t lying. While some people had children and others doted on their fur babies, I had books. Shelves upon shelves of time-traveling adventures, sword-wielding pirate queens, and modern-day princesses, stories that transcended the page and lived rent-free in my head—and heart—long after the book ended.

Over the past few years—first with my blog and then with the store—I had cultivated a community for introverted romantics like me everywhere. One built on a foundation of acceptance, love, and a shit ton of pink glitter.

What else could I possibly need?

Besides, thirtysomething, queer singles were a dime a dozen in Rose City, and I’d already dated half of them. The other half were people I’d known since kindergarten, and there was no way they would ever see me naked. That left granola-munching baby boomers, baseball boys who were barely out of college, and day-trippers from Portland.

Pass.

The store’s phone blared from across the room. I sidestepped the “back to school” display—books featuring characters who were teachers—in route to the reading nook where I’d left it after my call with a publisher this morning.

“Smutty Buddies,” I greeted. “Your friendly neighborhood romance peddler.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a familiar, silky voice answered. I could practically hear her twirling a finger through her jet-black curls. “Is this the store owner, Nessa Gibbs.”

“I’m sorry,” I parroted. “Is this world-renowned photographer, Kaylani Hu?”

“The one and only,” she said around a giggle. “How the heck are you, Nessie?”

Speaking of thirtysomething, queer singles, it had been a hot minute since I’d heard from Kaylani. Then again, the woman spent the bulk of the year bushwhacking through Wi-Fi-free zones while photographing rare birds and Indigenous tribes. It was hard to believe that my once quiet and reserved childhood bestie had grown up to become an award-winning photographer. One whose photos had been published in National Geographic and Time Magazine. Multiple times.

“Living the dream, Kay-lovely. Are you calling me from some remote island, surrounded by deadly creatures?”

I had lived vicariously through Kaylani’s postcards for years. Sri Lanka, Greenland, Antarctica. They decorated the wall behind my desk like wallpaper.

“Close. I’m in New York.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m coming home.”

That stopped me cold.

I hadn’t seen Kaylani—in person—for nearly three years. Not since Mom’s funeral. Her parents still lived in town, though they generally kept to themselves. And their chickens. Everybody knew that the Hus had the freshest eggs in town. But even farm-fresh eggs couldn’t keep Kaylani in Rose City. She’d zoomed out of town in her 2003 Honda Civic before our graduation caps had hit the gym floor.

“When do you get here? How long are you visiting? Do you need a ride from their airport? What can—”

“Slow down, Nessie.”

I paused to catch my breath and curb my excitement. June might have been my best friend since high school, but Kaylani was my oldest. She was single-handedly responsible for most of my firsts—first tattoo, first taste of alcohol, first hangover.

First kiss.

Because that was what bicurious teenage girls did—held each other’s hands while getting matching tattoos behind a Wendy’s and then made out. Also behind a Wendy’s.

“And to answer your questions, next week, to be determined, and no, my dad’s picking us up.”

“Us?”

“I’m . . . bringing somebody with me.”

“What kind of somebody?” I teased, sensing the implication from her tone.

“A certain special somebody.” She hesitated before adding, “A forever kind of somebody.”

And another one bites the dust.

I hated that that was my gut reaction. I wanted to be deliriously happy for my oldest friend finding her forever person, and I was . . . mostly. Like, 98.7%. That last little percentage was salty as fuck.

Soy sauce had nothing on me.

“Wow. That’s amazing.”

She snorted. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, pasting on my fakest smile, though I knew she couldn’t see it. “I’m excited for you, Kay. For both of you!”

“Aw, thanks, babe. I almost believe you.”

“It’s true.” The shrill tone of my voice was reaching a pitch only dogs could understand. “I’m excited to meet your person.”

“Actually, about that—”

Whatever she was about to say was cut short when Xan came barreling through the door. “Somebody sideswiped your car!”

“What?!”

“Right outside.” They pointed toward the end of the block, coffee sloshing out of the to-go cup in their hand, all over the floor. That was a problem for future me. “Some douche canoe in a Tesla. Go!”

“Kay, I got to go,” I told her, already halfway out the door. “I’ll call you later.”

“Gingerlee casts a spell to animate the weeping willow. It comes to life, wrapping its limbs around Brogan’s army and flinging them into the air. Brogan cries—”

“Eleven hundred dollars.”

Four sets of eyes shifted in my direction. June’s hand, perched over the map, froze in place. We were thirty minutes into our bimonthly Dungeons the last thing I need is another human being to care for.”

The game resumed after that, but even as our coven infiltrated the secret cellar in the church to rescue Brogan’s captive princess, my mind couldn’t help but wander to visions of a certain man with certain . . . doglike qualities.

Only this time, he was clad in heavy armor instead of athletic joggers and wielding a sword that made his biceps bulge.

That was going to make for one hell of a dream tonight.