Page 10 of Love to Hate You

In her heart, she knew her nonna would be so proud. And if she lost sight of that or the doubt crept in, all she had to do was look at the photo of her grandparents, fresh off the boat from Italy, sharing a kiss that had sparked a tradition of love and romance for the generations to come.

Summer was a quiet dreamer by nature, but a big dreamer in her heart—a trait she’d inherited from her dad and a trait she hoped to pass down to her own children someday.

All Things Cupid might look like a traditional bookshop with its floor-to-ceiling stacks, antique rolling ladders, and plush leather couches and barrel chairs situated in several intimate reading areas, but it was an independent bookstore that specialized in romance and beach reads. And hanging behind the checkout counter were several black-and-white photos of her family commemorating all the special moments in this shop. Her favorite picture was the one of Nonna and Papa Russo standing in front of the shop for the store’s grand opening, sharing a kiss that was the pure embodiment of victory and romance: two things Summer wanted to uphold. She’d achieved it in her work and was now searching for it in her personal life.

“Just for curiosity’s sake, what does Cotton Candy Pink imply?” Summer asked.

Her best friend crossed her arms smugly. “Let me guess. Asking for a friend?”

Summer lifted a defiant brow.

“Fine. Ballerina Pink, Carnation Pink, all the pastels, tell a guy that you stream a lot of Hallmark movies and do your own lady-scaping. Pretty much, romance on a budget.”

Summer refused to cover her face, but she did feel it flush with embarrassment.

Cleo was a welder by trade, a ballbuster by choice, and the part-time manager of All Things Cupid because she’d known Summer needed the help and in her loyalty had stepped up. Crafted from steel, street smarts, and questionable choices, she was a romantic hiding behind realist armor. Which was why she wore steel-toe boots with vampire-red hearts on them.

“What about Quartz Rose?” Summer asked casually, pretending all her focus was on the window display she was revamping to make room for the latest releases. “Understated sexy with a magical-mystery twist?”

“Depends. Does your LadyLand give magical orgasms, or is it a mystery like inRomancing the Stonewhere they need a treasure map?”

“Can we stop calling it that?”

“How about Vagayjay?”

“What? Are we in high school?”

“Bajingo?”

“Middle school?”

“Right, I’m talking to a romance expert. How about something more novel?”

“Har-har.”

“Slit,” Cleo said in her best sex-operator voice. “Heat. Core. Depths. Meat curtains. Femininity. Womanhood. Oh—I know—herportal.”

“Is it going to take him to another dimension?”

“If you were wearing Wild Orchid it would.”

A chuckle rattled out of Summer. “I doubt that Screw Me Scarlet would have helped with Dr. Daniel. He friend-zoned me even before he saw my panties.”

Regardless of what Daniel had said about his current lack of interest in dating, his lack had something to do with the fact that Summer wasn’t Autumn. There had been overflowing interest on his side that first day they met at the park, even some flirt and banter on the walk, but when he’d complimented her eyes, Summer had stumbled over her words and his expression had shifted ever so slightly. That was the moment Summer had been moved from theGIRLFRIEND POTENTIAL LANEacrossNO POTENTIAL HIGHWAYand straight toFRIEND ZONE JAIL—she did not pass go and nor did she collect her kiss.

“Panties? God, you need an intervention. Life isn’t a Nora Ephron movie, Summer. It’s loud and messy with lots of twists and unexpected turns. And it involves thongs and G-strings.”

“That’s what romance is all about,” she said defensively.

“G-strings?”

“A chance first encounter with a charming man where amusing and canny antics ensue, followed by witty banter and, of course, a first kiss under the stars.”

“Look atJane Eyre. The typical governess-falls-for-a-nobleman trope. Only said man has his first wife locked in the attic just because she fought back against the patriarchy. It’s a meet-cute turned Stephen King.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t go on dating apps. It’s easier to spot serial killers when you can see the whites of their eyes.”

“Bertha met Mr. Rochester IRL. Meg Ryan met Tom Hanks over the internet. Which seems safer?”

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