Page 24 of The One Night Dash
“Oh yes, the reason that prompted the video call, being single and having a cat, and yes, admittedly, a bit crazy, isn’t as bad as being with some jackoff who doesn’t deserve you.”
“No players.” She nods and chuckles. “Like my brother, who is not your type.”
“Not to side with the owner of the phone I’m using, but from everything I know about him, he doesn’t pretend to be interested just to get a girl. In fact, he’s always been that way.”
“Ooo, ooo, ooo. You went to Hayward; what about that Lauren girl? Was he in love with her? Give me all the dirt you have time for.”
I must pull a face, because she laughs. “I saw a picture. She looked like a mean girl.”
“She was my roommate, sorority sister,best friend.” I shrug. “She was looking for the next Dash the day we came back for senior year.” I smile. “Dash deserves better than a girl who asked for an introduction based on his looks, his status, and the fact that his watch looks expensive.”
Smiling, she holds up her wrist. “Our dad loved watches.” Briar twists the watch around her wrist again, her thumb brushing the worn strap. I can tell she does it without thinking, the way some people fidget with a necklace or a ring. It comforts that dull ache that never goes away.Just like her brother does.
I reach to my nightstand and pull out the book that never really leaves the side of my bed. “My dad loved books. This is the one I keep close.A Moveable Feastby Ernest Hemingway.”
She tilts her head. “That’s your cat’s name.”
I laugh softly. “Yeah. Irony at its finest. It fit. Hemingway wasn’t exactly the model of stable love. But sometimes … even people who can’t hold onto it still write about it in a way that makes you believe and understand it.”
I flip to a page I’ve underlined half a dozen times and read aloud,“‘We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.’”
Briar exhales, shoulders softening. “That’s kind of beautiful.”
“It is,” I say, smoothing the spine with my thumb.
“My dad would’ve loved this. It’s not about money or status; it’s about the kind of love that makes you feel like it’s just meant to be.”
“That’s worth more than all the money in the world.”
She falls back on her bed. “I know, and I want that so bad.”
“I’m of the belief that the truest love will steal your heart without you even knowing it.” I smile. “I have a type of man I want as a partner. I will not make someone change or accept someone who can play chameleon, and I don’t have a timeline or inflated expectations.” I can’t help but laugh. “And after meeting some obligations, I’m adopting that for people I allow in my life in general.”
She holds up her wrist. “Time is too precious.”
“Oh my God, Briar, do not make me cry before I have to go people.”
SEVEN
NOELLE
Talking with Briar was unexpected,and although we touched on some deep issues, she seems like such a sweet girl. Part of me wants to tell Dash, because it will ease the concern—concern that I put on him—but a bigger part feels that a promise, or in this case, an agreement, is more beneficial to support his overall concerns, or at the least helpful to her. She now has my number, too, just in case she needs it.
After Hemingway is fed and I’m showered and ready for my day, I kiss his kitty head. “Have a good day.” Then I grab my laptop and head down the stairs.
I unlock the interior door, which opens directly into the shop. I never get tired of this moment—the way stepping through feels like I’m crossing through a portal into another world.
The smell hits first. It always does. Old paper and polished wood. I walk over and start the coffee, making the scent around me even more intoxicating and comforting to a bookworm like me.
I unlock the door and flip the sign to“Open,”loosen my scarf, and take in the quiet. The hush before the day begins. There’s only one problem. My laptop is screaming my name, and it’s not supposed to do that until closing time.
The first customers are always the same—my faithful. Three women, all older than me, kids of various ages and stages in life, and husbands at work, push through the door within ten minutes of each other; one carrying a cloth tote with a laminated library card clipped to it, the other with a stack of crossword puzzles she’ll work on between chapters.
“Morning, Noelle,” Angie calls, her voice brisk but fond.
“Morning,” I say, and like clockwork, I hand her the new release from her favorite historical fiction author, Kristan Hannah. She doesn’t even ask for it anymore—I just set it aside when the shipment arrives.
A couple of minutes behind her, Marcy trails in with her smile already softening at the sight of the shelves. She goes straight for the romance display, humming under her breath as she runs her fingers along the spines. Today, she chooses two books —one contemporary, one Regency —and cradles them like old friends.
