Page 106 of Drawn Together
“Okay.”
“I’m gonna get ready.”
“I’m gonna leave.”
But here we both are, my head on his chest and his fingers in my hair. Neither of us moving a single muscle.
If she still wanted him after tonight, Fletcher would lay everything left in his life down for her. He was more than willing to. He was ready to leave one life behind in trade for another.
Thirty-two
Wordoftheday:Illumoria
Definition:the realization that every person has hidden parts of themselves
I’m still holding a garland of dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks when the door chimes open for the hundredth time since I got here, as Cliff carries signs in and out. The scent of clove and balsam fills Nook and Cranny, like it’s seeped straight out of a storybook, and I have the pine sap under my nails to prove it.
I twist the garland around the edge of the reading loft’s railing, stepping back to admire it. Warm fairy lights wind through the ceiling beams like lazy fireflies, and every corner of the store glows with mismatched lamps and tiny pumpkins perched on shelves beside classic hardcovers. There’s a crackling audio loop of fireplace sounds coming from the speakers thanks to Lennon.
Edith has decided to go all out on this event, which meant giving Lennon, Cliff, and I full reign over the decorations. The entire day has been dedicated to making this store look fresh out of a Nora Ephron movie. Mugs of hot cider sit on the backcounter, each one sweating gently onto a paper coaster stamped with a tiny turkey reading Whisper House.
Out on the front display table, I’ve arranged copies of The Orchard at the End of the Lane and The Clockmaker’s Shadow like a shrine. The golden anniversary edition of The Paper Teeth sits in the center, framed by garlands of fake cranberry sprigs and a brass sign that reads: "Farewell, Cedric Brooks — Thank You for 50 Years of Magic."
Fifty years. Can you even imagine? Doing the thing you love for fifty years of your life. Knowing that your life's dedication will forever line childhood dreams with creeping ivy and talking animals, broken pocket watches, missing children, and stars that hummed lullabies as directions. Even if Cedric Brooks was at least eighty years old, that would mean he wrote his first best seller at thirty. Which inherently feels like I have five years left to have my first…whatever is the closest relation to a best seller for me.
Considering Threadbare is Cedric’s last novel, I might be well on my way there.
I’ve already had one other art director reach out for me to design a cowboy romance cover at the beginning of the new year.
“Flora,” Lennon calls from the back room, her voice muffled by Cliff unfolding chairs. “Do we want the name tags to be pumpkin-shaped or leaf-shaped?”
My fingers loop the last orange slice around the railing, and I slide down the ladder. “Uh, pumpkin.”
She’s silent. Are pumpkins stupid?
“Unless you think we should do leaves?”
“Great idea,” she calls back, and I smile to myself.
I check the time again—fifteen minutes until the doors officially open, and thirty minutes until Cedric Brooks makes his way in.
Just as I’m enjoying my oranges and weaving yarn, a subtle tap on my hip interrupts my peace. I look down to see Fletcher, his dark hair brushing his forehead as he gazes upward.
Sunlight warms my face as I speak, “You’re here.”
My feet hop down on level ground, the sound muffled by the jute rug beneath me. A nervous flutter fills my stomach. I don’t know if hugging him is the right thing to do after everything we did last night, but the scent of his familiar cologne wraps its way into my chest, and I squeeze him in my arms regardless.
“I’m here.” He wipes his palms on his pants, like he’s the one who should be nervous tonight. Meanwhile, if this place isn’t in perfect shape in the next half hour, Edith will literally hang me by my underwear by the no phones sign.
“How, uh, how does it look?” I point back to the store.
“Oh God, sorry, I was distracted.” He pulls back to take in the store in all its Thanksgiving-y glory. “It’s incredible, Flora. You are incredible. I’m sorry I’m—” he blows out a hefty breath, and it’s the first time I realize he’s sweating.
Tiny droplets formed at his hairline, trailing to his neck. His hands on my waist are shaky, fingers tapping against me like it will steady him somehow.
I squint up at him, but he’s busy counting chairs under his breath. “Fletcher, are you sick?” My hand raises so the back of my fingers brush his forehead. He’s burning up, my cold skin against the heat of him. “You’re so hot.”
“Thanks, baby. It’s the tie—blue really brings out my eyes.”
