Page 25 of The One Night Dash
They head for the back, their coats already slipping off their shoulders, and make themselves tea from the little bar under the stairs. Steam curls up from the chipped mugs they both insist are their “lucky ones,” though I’ve never figured out why. Soon enough, they’re tucked into velvet armchairs, books open, reading glasses perched on their noses.
Angie works here part-time—she’ll keep an ear on the bell and handle the register if I need to run upstairs. She’s got the whole routine down better than me some days. Marcy … well, she’ll stay until closing since she’s now officially an empty nester and her husband works late.
The bell jingles again, and Evie breezes in, the faintest whiff of expensive perfume trailing after her. Today, it’s a camel coat, belted, the kind that probably costs more than my monthly mortgage. She unwinds her scarf and drops a glossy bakery box on the counter.
“Extras,” she says, brushing it off before I can comment. “Don’t let them go to waste.”
Angie smirks. “Translation: she stopped at Leclerc again, couldn’t resist, and now she’s pretending it’s charity.”
Evie narrows her eyes. “They were on special.”
“Special,” Angie snorts. “Evie, those pastries cost twelve bucks a pop. A ‘special’ at Leclerc means they threw in a napkin.”
Marcy giggles from her armchair. “She’s right, you know.”
Evie waves a hand like she’s swatting away flies then plucks a slim hardback off the display. “Has anyone ever considerednotinterrogating the person providing breakfast?”
I hide a smile. This is their ritual. Angie with her sharp tongue, Marcy with her giggles, and Evie pretending she’s just one of the girls, not someone with a trust fund and an art collection gathering dust.
Watching them settle in always gives me this quiet thrill. They’ve carved out their corner of the world here that predates me. It feels like proof the bookstore will one day do what I dreamed it will—become a refuge, a little piece of magic hidden behind brick and glass for people who love books.
By the time I finish reshelving yesterday’s strays and scribble a few notes in the order book, I am dying to get back at my manuscript.
I nearly jump when Angie tucks her tote under the counter, slipping her readers onto the bridge of her nose. “You need to head up to the office for a bit?” she asks, like she already knows the answer. “I’ll keep an ear on the bell.”
I hesitate then shake my head. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, I could really use the help today. I’ve got to run down to the cell shop—my phone’s been acting up since the great coffee incident.”
Angie looks up over her glasses, lips twitching. “The what?”
“That wedding,” I say, and they all quietly groan, knowing I don’t really want to go but feel I need to. “I found a dress that was perfect. I swear it’s magical, the kind of dress that makes you not just know you’re beautiful but feel it to the bone. I FaceTimed my girls, and it was a resounding yes.” They’re hanging on every word. “I walked out of the store with the vintage dress in a bag, and someone ran into me, and coffee went everywhere.”
“No,” they gasp.
“The dress is at a cleaner, and the phone needs to be replaced.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Evie holds her hand to her chest.
Heat creeps up my neck. “It happens. It will all be okay.”
“Do you have insurance on your phone?” Marcy asks.
“Yes.” I smile.
“Go get it fixed. We’ll be here when you get back.” Angie waves me off, already reaching for the register like she owns the place. “I’ll run the fort. Just don’t come back with one of those ridiculous phone cases with ears or sparkles.”
I grab my scarf and bag, smiling as I head to the door. “No promises.”
I leavethe cell shop with a bounce in my step and, for once, a win tucked in my backpack. My insurance covered the new phone. No questions, no fight, no worries about messing up my budget. Just a shiny new phone and the relief of knowing I don’t have to wait for it to be shipped out to me, and possibly being without it for days. That would mean no connection with the girls while I’m at a wedding I don’t want to go to, but must.
On the sidewalk, I slip my crossbody backpack around to the front—safer that way in the city—and unzip it. I pull Dash’s phone out and cringe again at the fact that he doesn’t have a passcode. I’m pleasantly surprised there are no messages that I could accidentally open and have him thinking I’m a snoop.
I quickly thumb through his contacts in hopes he’s got it saved under something blatantly obvious, like he does his teammates. KOK, Motherfaulker, Killer, Big Stones, and on and on. And he does!I think, anyway. Zbears? We shall see.
I send a text.
Me:
Sterling?
