The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,151

tomorrow. You’ve been careful about girls so far. I’m proud of you for that. This isn’t the time to test the waters. Your mother was being a little unfair this morning. But she’s not wrong. That girl has a troubled past. From what I’ve heard, anyway.”

“I didn’t know gossip was your thing.”

“That doesn’t make it untrue, Remi, and I like to know who’s moving in here. Her mother bought that store for a pittance from Lister. Much less than it’s worth. But before that, she was in jail, for embezzlement. And that girl was in a foster home. For nearly two years. Do you know what years in a place like that will do to someone?”

“No. And you don’t either,” I challenge him. But, I make a note of the information.

“Not firsthand. No. But I’ve seen it up close, and she’s got baggage you can’t even imagine. You should listen to your mother. And if you don’t want to do that, I’m going to insist that you at least listen to me.”

I owe him that, at the very least.

“Sure Pops, I promise.”

Chapter 3

TO BE READ

REMI

* * *

The bookstore, To Be Read, is the last stop on my route. I’ve been anticipating it all morning and by the time I pull up outside, I’m practically chomping at the bit to get inside.

I peer in through the huge pane glass window covered in their red logo.

I see her, she’s facing me but her face is turned downward. This small glimpse makes my pulse jump in a way that unsettles me. I pride myself on my nerves of steel. I decide to heed my grandfather’s warning. In and out.

I shake it off, exhale a calming breath, and put my hand on the door to open it.

“You making a delivery or preparing for a game, Remi?” Henny Harper, shouts at me from her perch on a bench in the square.

She’s one of Rivers Wilde’s first residents. She’s retired and notoriously nosy. But, she’s got a heart of gold and a wicked sense of humor. I shoot her a deprecating smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Sweet & Lo’s by now? The kolaches will be cold if you wait much longer to head over.”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” she says, but stands up. “You be nice to that girl,” she calls over her shoulder and then saunters up the pebbled walkway that bisects the grass-covered square.

“I’m always nice,” I mutter to her retreating back before I turn and open the door. A small bell jingles and announces my presence. She doesn’t look up from the box of books she’s bent over.

She’s got white earbuds stuck in her ears and she’s singing “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt at the top of her lungs. Her voice is terrible, and she’s fucking up the lyrics, but damn she’s into it. Her eyes are closed as she belts out the song. What she lacks in talent, she makes up for with her passion.

The late morning sun is high and it bathes her in a warm light that illuminates her face. I can only see her profile, but it’s striking. She’s wearing glasses, instead of sunglasses this time. The black frames rest on the sharp line of a high cheekbone that swoops and flares and reminds me of a drawing I saw of the Egyptian queen Nefertiti.

My eyes follow the outline of full lips and the small jut of her chin and move along the smooth line of her jaw and down the graceful sweep of her long neck. Her hair, a mass of thick dark curls, is caught in a huge bun at the top of her head that sways as she dances.

She’s short, at least compared to me, the top of her head would hit me at shoulder height. Her slim shoulders roll and her hips, snug in a pair of tiny white shorts, sway to the beat of her music. She reaches up on her tiptoes and the muscles in her long legs flex with the motion. I forget my pledge to my grandfather and walk into the store.

I start up the aisle where she’s working. She senses me, stops singing, looks up sharply, yanks the headphones out of her ears, and turns to face me fully.

All of the air steals from my lungs.

It’s not just because she’s the kind of pretty that makes you pay attention. Though she’s certainly that. Or that behind her dark-rimmed glasses, her eyes are perfectly symmetrical almonds centered with