Page 80 of Love is an Open Book
I start rummaging through the storage bins. Gavin stacked them in orderly rows, but the problem is, it looks like he put the books on the bottom. “Why’d you arrange them this way?” I mutter, hoping only he can hear me with all the ambient noise in the convention center.
“Heaviest things go on the bottom. That’s Warehousing 101.”
“Except we’re not in a warehouse.” I lift off the top box, and he goes to grab the second, our arms bumping. But this time it feels less like chemistry and more like we’re out of sync.
“Maybe a neighboring table has some sticky notes. Do you mind asking?” I make sure to keep my tone level. None of this is his fault, and he’s doing me a huge favor.
“No problem.” He bends in and drops his voice. “You’re doing great. Everyone’s here for you, and they don’t mind a wait.” With that, he’s hurrying off, and I feel my shoulders relax. We’re still us, Gavin and Mia. We have each other’s backs, and he believes in me, even when I’m stressed and cranky.
With a deep breath, I open the next bin, and to my relief, it’s the right one. I redo the inscription for Meghan, adding a personal note and a few extra pieces of swag.
When Gavin returns fifteen minutes later, his hair is mussed and his badge is askew, but he brandishes the sticky notes overhead like a victorious hero. “Mission accomplished,” he says above the din, and the whole line of people clap, with more than a few appreciative glances thrown his way.
“That’s some real romance-hero stuff,” the woman in front of me jokes, and I nod, hoping my smile doesn’t look as smitten as the warm feeling in my chest.
“They’re just friends, Emma.” Another woman steps up next to her, and I recognize her in an instant. Gavin’s boss. This must be a member of the book club she was talking about.
“Just friends, huh?” the first woman says. “Now I see why you saved Victor and Sydney’s book for last.” She gives me a knowing look, but Faye nudges her.
“Hush, you,” Faye says.
My hands grow cold. I open the book and swipe my Sharpie in quick strokes, then thank her and pass back the book.
“Sorry.” She casts a glance at the line behind her and drops her voice. “I probably shouldn’t have gone there. Too many romance novels, I guess.”
“No such thing,” I answer on autopilot, but the words come out as a rough croak. I hate the reminder of how close our story is to the one I can’t envision a happy ending for.
I glance toward Gavin, worried about his reaction, but he’s caught up in conversation with Faye and a man I’m assumingis her husband. After a brief conversation, they head off and he leans across the table and passes me a water bottle. “How am I doing, boss?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Ma’am?” he jokes, and a titter of laughs comes from the line. “Ms. Brady?”
I roll my eyes, and take a sip of the water, then slide the next book toward me. He goes back to the line, joking with people as he passes out Post-it notes and digs extra pens out of his back pocket. His pants are snug, and my eyes snag on his round butt for a moment before dragging back to the task at hand. It’s the kind of appreciative look I’ve avoided for so long that even a split second of lingering feels illicit.
My pulse ratchets up, thinking of the quick kiss we shared in the hallway, too short but enough to have my skin tingling at the memory even now.
The line at my booth is thinning, and I notice other authors in knots, talking or stretching. When Gavin’s done passing out notes, I ask, “Time check?”
His face falls when he looks at his smartwatch. “Oh shit. It’s three thirty.”
“Two thirty, you mean?” I look around frantically for my phone, as if confirming the time myself will make things better.
He shakes his head, looking miserable.
“I’ve got to go.” I shove back from the table, rattling the mugs filled with branded pens.
“But I’ve been waiting half an hour,” someone says.
“Sorry, I’m late for a panel.” Half an hour late, to be precise. And it’s across the convention center, which adds another five minutes.
“Do you mind giving everyone swag?” I ask Gavin, shoving my arms into the sleeves of my blazer. “You can offer signed bookplates if they can’t make it back later.”
“Signed bookplates?” Gavin’s face is the picture of confusion, and I realize he might not even know what a bookplate is, let alone where I store them.
Not his fault, not his fault, I repeat to myself, teeth gritted. After all, if he asked me to find mulch at his store, I wouldn’t even know if I was looking for piles of it or bags, let alone what variety.
I bite my lip, torn between fixing the situation here and rushing to my panel, but Gavin’s face transforms into determination, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this handled.”
