Page 95 of Love, Lacey Donovan
“No,” he said. “Of course you’re not fired. You’re the best employee I’ve ever had. You care more about books than anyone I’ve ever known. I’d be a fool to fire you.”
I sighed and glanced up in my rearview mirror. Thatcher’s Jeep sat behind me in the driveway.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, staring at his car in the rearview mirror.
“Wanna go for a ride?”
“No.”
“A drink?”
“No.”
“Come on,” Thatcher said. “Get in the Jeep.” Rain drummed on the roof of my car. “I have books.”
Any other time, that would have been enough. Not now. Not after what I’d done to ruin things with Beckett. “I don’t want books right now. I can’t even think about reading.”
“That’s really bad.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“Get in my car.” Thatcher’s voice rang in my ear. “Or you’re fired, Lacey. I mean it. And I will make sure no other bookshop in the state hires you. You will be untouchable. If you don’t think I can do it, just watch me. I’m hanging up now. If you are not in my Jeep in thirty seconds, I will call the first shop on my list.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Hanging up now.”
And he was gone. The dial tone sounded in my ear. I glared at Thatcher in my rearview mirror. The rain made it difficult to see, but I knew he was staring at me.
Huffing a deep sigh, I got out of the car and splashed through the rain to Thatcher’s Jeep. I snatched open the passenger door and threw myself inside. Thatcher caught me in an awkward, one-armed hug and hauled me across the console to his chest. His dog, a Labrador named Daisy, nuzzled my hair.
“I can’t believe you fell for that load of bullshit.” His laugh vibrated against my chest.
I sucked back tears, determined not to cry, and buried my head in the armpit of Thatcher’s canvas jacket. “I’ve ruined everything.”
Thatcher patted my back and muttered condolences. Rain drummed on the roof of the Jeep. Daisy licked my cheek. I don’t know how much time passed before Thatcher finally spoke again.
“Uh, Lacey… I can’t feel my arm,” he said.
I let go of Thatcher and leaned back to my side of the car. Thatcher flexed his arm and rolled his shoulder. The tears wouldn’t stop. I needed to fix this. But how?
“I can’t believe I messed up so badly.”
Thatcher reached over and covered my hand with his. “Something else will happen, and the internet will forget all about you screaming in Miranda Lockhart’s face.”
I stiffened. “I didn’t scream in Miranda Lockhart’s face.”
Thatcher patted my hand. “I saw the video. You were screaming.”
“Bitch,” I muttered, thinking about the way Sally had fingered that sapphire hanging around her neck. Had it really been a gift from Beckett? There was so much I didn’t know.
Thatcher’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell, Lacey?”
I buried my head in my hands, Sally’s words echoing in my head. Was I just another muse to Beckett?
I hated Sally for planting the thought in my mind, where it lodged and festered. But what if it was true? What if Beckett fell in love every time he wrote a book, and then out of it just as quickly?
I choked on a sob.
