from a jar in the main kitchen.
Father Nathaniel could preach love and forgiveness and togetherness and sharing to the ends of the earth and back, but none of it mattered. It was all a bunch of bullshit he said to shove hope down the throats of the hopeless in order to keep them around. As long as there was hope, people stuck around, and as long as people stuck around, Father Nathaniel’s ego stayed nice and fed.
“Feels like a lifetime ago.” I gaze out the window.
“What?”
“Oh. Sorry. Just thinking about Shiloh Springs.” Gathering my long, wavy hair, I sweep it over my shoulder and weave a braid, letting the ends hang loose.
Presley scoffs. “It was a lifetime ago. You’re not that hippy dippy girl I met wandering the Vegas strip barefoot anymore, but you’ve come a long way, friend. And thank God for that.”
I pull at the fabric of my long skirt and stare down at my tan Birkenstocks.
The bells on the door jingle, jerking our collective attention to a tall man in a faded gray t-shirt and dark jeans coming our way. He pulls off a pair of mirrored aviators that, on anyone else, would elicit an eye roll from Presley. Instead, she clears her throat with clear intention and wears the smile of a lioness two seconds from stalking her prey.
He’s so her type.
Thick, chocolate hair. Hooded blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Full lips made for all kinds of naughty things. A cleft in his chin to accent the manliest jawline this side of the Rockies.
He’s striking. The kind of striking that makes you forget to breathe for a minute.
I glance at Presley, who doesn’t so much as attempt to stifle the ridiculous grin capturing her pretty face. When she thinks I’m not looking, her dark eyes scan his broad shoulders and dip slowly down toward the hint of a bulge in the front of his jeans.
I can’t have her ogling my customers like this, but lucky for her, I’m months away from closing up shop. Nothing matters anymore. Some junior high punk ran in here last week and shoved a Harry Potter book under his jacket and sprinted off. I didn’t even try to stop him. May as well let them steal it if I can’t even give it away.
“Welcome to The Tipsy Poet,” Presley says. “May I help you find something today?”
His eyes squint as he scans the shelves behind her, scratching the side of his brow.
“Just looking today or . . .?” I ask. “We have just about everything under the sun.”
My cheeks burn. I sound so lame, and for some insane reason I care.
Okay, that insane reason might be because he’s one of the most gorgeous creatures ever to stumble in here, but still, he’s Presley’s type. I don’t even have a type. And if I did, it wouldn’t be him.
This guy looks like the kind of man who’d pick an LA Laker cheerleader over a girl who shops at thrift stores and wears her hair sans-product. Girls like me are invisible to guys like him. They look clear through me, and I’m absolutely fine with that, because I wouldn’t waste my time on someone like that anyway.
No skin off my back.
“Baby books,” he says.
Presley and I exchange looks like our thoughts are syncing.
“You know,” he says. “Like how to change diapers and stuff.”
Presley’s shoulders slump forward, her jaw slightly hanging.
This man’s clearly about to become a father, which means he has a wife or a girlfriend, which means he’s completely off the market.
“Yeah,” she says, her tone now flat. “Over here.”
I stand back as she takes him to the tiny corner of the store where two narrow shelves house a couple of dozen baby manuals.
He doesn’t check her out, not once. Which is a shock. Every man who walks in here drools over Presley and her cocoa hair and deep-set gaze. Her lips are almost always slicked in bright shades like ruby or fuchsia. I’m positive half of our sales come from men hoping if they buy enough from her, they just might score her number.
“This is everything we have,” she says to the handsome patron.
The man pulls a thick book off the shelf, cracking the spine and thumbing through.
I yawn for the millionth time this morning, still barely able to stay awake. I’m strongly considering heading into my office, locking the door, and curling up under my desk for a little nap before Presley leaves at two. I’ll use the cushion