Page 53 of A Novel Love Story

It sounded better than burgers, I had to admit, but I kept waiting for the little voice in the back of my head to tell me this was a terrible idea. The voice never spoke up. So maybe it wasn’t that terrible an idea?And maybe I could find out more about his backstory, and piece together what Rachel Flowers had planned.

Maybe I’d find an ending to Quixotic Falls, after all.

The idea was electrifying.

I rolled the thought around in my head for a moment, and then realized—“Wait. Are … you asking to make me Sorry Pasta?” I asked. He gave me a curious look. “Like Jake and Ruby? Jake makes Ruby Sorry Pasta when he knows he’s been an asshole.”

“I … guess I am,” he admitted, but he sounded unsure. “So, is that a yes?”

“I’ll put you on my dance card,” I said, and his shoulders unwound a little in relief.

“Oh, good. Why don’t you take my umbrella and get your things from the Daffodil, and I’ll close up and have a word with Butters about rooftops and birds.”

I found his umbrella by the door, and left to go fetch my things and tell Junie the news. She seemed more than a little intrigued, wiggling her eyebrows at me as I left the inn, but I refused to think anything of it. The simple fact was: if I had to choose taking charity from Anders or another night in an inn with haunted plumbing, Anders was the sure bet. I’d at least get some sleep at the bookstore. That was the only reason I even entertained the thought of the loft again. It wasn’t because of Anders himself.

No, not at all.

When I returned, Anders must’ve given his cat a very stern talking-to, because Butters was curled up on his bedding by the window, back turned toward us, sulkily staring out at a starling taunting him from a streetlight. As Anders finished counting out the (admittedly unchanged) register, I gave the cat a gentle rub.

“Oh, don’t fall for his sulking,” Anders said, glaring at Butters. “He knows what he did.”

I inclined my head defiantly. “I’m commiserating. We both know what it’s like to get in trouble with you.”

“Nonsense.” He closed the register, and pinned me with those bright green eyes. “You’ve yet to lock me out of a window. But I’m sure there is still time. Shall we eat?” he asked, inclining his head for me to follow him through the bookstore to the back, and Butterscotch jumped down to follow. I hesitated for a moment, thinking that maybe I was in a bit of trouble, too.

Just an entirely different kind.

17

Cloudy with a Chance of Kisses

DON’T MIND THE MESS,”he said as he welcomed me inside the small yellow two-story row house behind the bookstore.

The place was homey, decorated in a quaint sort of way, with plaid patterns and handcrafted furniture. The foyer led straight to a set of stairs, where I assumed the bedroom was. To my right was a doorframe leading into a small but comfortable living room, blankets neatly stacked on the backs of the couches, and to the left the green-tinted kitchen. The house was lovely, but in a detached Airbnb sort of way. There weren’t any photos on the walls, and nothing personal on the side tables.

I sat at the table as he fed Butterscotch and muttered, petting his back, “We learned our lesson today, yes?”

In reply, the cat purred, neither agreeing nor promising to.

I propped my head up on my hand. “I really never pictured you as a cat person.”

“Why, do I look like the dog type?” he asked, going to the cabinet and taking out two jars of sauce—one Alfredo and one tomato—from the pantry.“Red or white?”

At first, I thought he was joking, but when he kept waiting for my answer, I replied with a very serious “Oh, dear.”

“What?”

“Spaghetti sauces aren’t like types ofwine.” I pushed myself to stand and took the jars of marinara and Alfredo sauces from his grip. “Do you even cook?”

He scoffed. “Obviously.”

Liar.

“Right. Sit down, I’ve got this,” I said, and motioned for him to take my seat instead. “And to answer your question—no. I didn’t think you were a dog guy or a cat guy or a bird guy. I didn’t think you’d have pets at all. Well”—and then I gave it a thought—“maybe a miniature pony. Named Ralph.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why Ralph? And why a miniature pony?”

“Have you had the displeasure of meeting one?”

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