Page 8 of The One Night Dash
“I mean, she’s notmine, and itwasan accident.”
“Perfect dress, Dash,” Nalani growls.
“Not thinking it is now,” I say, sliding into the back seat of the SUV and lift my chin to Joel.
“That’s so rude. You?—”
“So,” Koa cuts her off, “you’re calling us to clean up the mess that?—”
“No, Kok, I’m calling because I’m going to offer to take it to my cleaner to have a go at the dress. She lives above the bookstore, right?” I nod to Joel, and he pulls away from the curb.
Nalani sighs. “That’s very nice.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
She snorts, and I roll my eyes.
“What’s the name of the store?”
“Pembrooke. She’s probably devastated, so don’t be”—Koa pauses—“you.”
I mouth, “Pembrooke,” to Joel and then tell Koa, “You both wound me.” I hang up the phone and sit back, completelyunwounded.
When we pull up in front of Pembrooke Books, I have to admit I’m impressed, but not surprised that this is where Noelle, the girl with her nose stuck in a book back at Hayward University, ended up.
The building is one of those old New York brownstones that looks like it’s been here forever, wedged between a boutique clothing shop and a café with tiny marble tables out front. The brick is deep red, weathered in places, with bare wooden vines creeping up one side that will no doubt be covered in greens as the weather changes. Big, arched windows frame the storefront, glass so clean I can see my reflection.
I grab the brass handle on the door, and … it doesn’t open. Then I notice the sign, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of good books must occasionally leave them for other adventures.”
Tapping out a text to Koa, I can’t help but laugh to myself at the irony of the adventure she just took. I wonder if she was wishing she hadn’t taken said adventure as much as I wish she hadn’t. Because, right now, I’d be getting laid.
Koa:
Nalani’s calls and texts are going unanswered; she’s worried. I don’t like my woman to worry. Code’s 26657538.
Nalani:
Do NOT tell her we gave it to you!
I shovemy phone into my pocket, inwardly rolling my eyes, wondering how the hell they’d like me to explain I had the code, but … whatever. I tap it in.
The lock clicks, and I step inside Pembrooke Books.
The place smells like old paper, coffee, and something faintly floral. Sunlight filters through the big front windows, catching in the dust motes.
I look around. The tall shelves stretch all the way to the ceiling, their dark wood polished and crammed with books of every imaginable size and color. The worn floorboards creak softly as I step farther inside. The space may be twenty-five or thirty feet wide, but it’s two, maybe three times the length. In the back, there’s a collection of mismatched velvet armchairs, beside the stairway with a wrought iron and wood baluster. The place is pretty badass if books are your thing.
I take the steps two at a time and end up in her office. There is a big oak desk in the middle, half meticulous invoices, half a chaotic tower of romance paperbacks with sticky notes poking out. A bulletin board crowded with postcards, Polaroids, and scribbled dialogue. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with craft books, poetry, and what looks like a shrine to Nora Roberts. Near the window, a loveseat draped with a knitted throw sits beside a basket overflowing with teabags.
Her laptop’s open. I glance. I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. But I do.
Emmett’s eyes burned like fresh espresso as he pressed her against the counter, his strong barista hands cupping her like she was the only latte in the world worth frothing.
My brows shoot up. What the hell?
Her breath hitched as his fingers found the tiny silver spoon … and flicked her bean with the precision of a man who’d measured exactly one perfect scoop of sugar.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, and hell yes, I scroll—just a little—and it gets even better.
