Page 21 of Strictly Pretend

Every cell in my body responds to that stupid grin

“By the way, I’m Walt Robbins,” Granddad says. He holds his hand out to Brooks, who shakes it vigorously.

“Brooks Salinger.”

Grandad blinks. “That name rings a bell.”

“It’s a very common name,” I say quickly, not wanting him to work out where he’s heard it before. “There were at least tenof them at the wedding. And then, of course, there’s the author. Maybe you’re thinking of him?”

Brooks tips his head to the side and looks at me. “I’m probably related to all of them. We’re a big family.” He looks back at Grandad. “I love your bookshop.”

It’s like somebody’s praised his baby. Grandad preens. “Thank you. Are you a collector?”

“Of books?” Brooks asks.

“No, of cadavers.” I roll my eyes.

Brooks’ gaze catches mine again. He looks like he’s actually enjoying himself.

“I’m not a book collector,” he says to Grandad, as though he’s confessing to a murder. “But I’d love to know more about them. My father has an extensive library at his house in Virginia.”

“He does?” Granddad’s eyes light up.

“Yes, sir.”

There’s silence, like none of us knows what to say. Then Granddad clears his throat. “Emma, why don’t you and your friend go for a coffee? It’s quiet here. I can hold down the fort.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure Brooks has better things to do,” I blurt.

“I don’t,” Brooks says.

“You can talk about the wedding,” Granddad adds. “Because you’re going. They’re your friends, Emma. I won’t hear any excuses.”

I’m not going, but that’s a battle for another day. “Just for half an hour,” I say, trying not to sigh because this feels like a defeat. But maybe it’s a victory, too. Whatever Brooks Salinger has to say about our lease he can say to me at the coffee shop. Then he can get in his perfectly expensive car and drive off, back to his rich life in Manhattan.

And I’ll never have to see him again.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing my purse and leaning over to kiss Granddad’s cheek. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER

SIX

BROOKS

“You go grab a seat and I’ll order our drinks,” I say to Emma as we walk into the coffee shop. It’s one of those mock-old cafes with unmatched chairs and rubbed off paint that’s trying to look like it’s been here forever but was probably set up by some trust fund dude who thinks that if he can have some kind of dream job he’ll be happy.

And yeah, I’m a trust fund dude. Don’t think the irony of that escapes me.

“I’ll get the drinks,” Emma says. She’s so obviously annoyed with me. She walked ahead of me the whole way here. In the sunshine her red hair looks almost blonde. The sun shone off it and made her look like an advert for shampoo. She’d hate that if she knew.

How would you know what she hates?

“I’m not letting you pay for my drinks,” I tell her.

“Well, I’m not letting you pay for mine.” She folds her arms across her chest. She’s wearing a black dress with a white collar and trim, oversize white buttons adorn the front. Even though it’s fastened to the neck she looks alarmingly attractive. I’mtrying really fucking hard not to look at where it stops, mid thigh.

“Sit down.” It comes out a little harsher than I expect. Two people turn around to look at us. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers because this woman is aggravating. But there’s still no excuse for me talking to her like that.

---