Page 86 of Road Trip to Forever
The blonde woman behind the bakery counter didn’t raise an eyebrow when she wrapped up the twenty-five treats, handing them to me in a large pink box tied together with a white string. Lola and I found a table by the window where we’re currently sitting, digging into the pies while we watch people pass on the sidewalk.
“The chocolate pie is just so good.” Lola evades my defense, cutting off a piece from my plate and scooping it away.
I don’t try to stop her.
“If you could only eat one flavor of pie for the rest of your life,” I ask, “what would it be?”
“Are you taking questions from my serial killer list?”
“I have to be sure about you, Jones. Twenty-four years isn’t enough time to get to know a person.”
“Pumpkin. Definitely pumpkin.” She pauses and considers her answer. “Or cherry.”
“Cherry pie? Wouldn’t the crust get soggy?”
“Not when you have some vanilla ice cream with it. Then it’s perfect.”
“It's a shame I don’t keep vanilla ice cream in my pocket.”
“Lots of missed opportunities for a joke about cartons or if you’re just happy to see me.”
“Never a carton, Lola. Think of the mess.”
“Fine.” Her lips twitch. “If you say so.”
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Patrick and Lola?”
I look up and find a woman smiling at us. There’s a man standing behind her—the same one I saw earlier with the teenage girl.
“Yeah. Hey.” I stand and try to wipe my hands clean with a napkin. The chocolate on the tips of my fingers refuses to come off. “That’s us.”
“I thought so. I know everyone in this town, but I didn’t recognize y’all. I’m Bridget Boylston, and this,” she gestures to the man who watches her with a faint smile, “is my fiancé, Theo. We’re the owners of the place, and we wanted to introduce ourselves in person instead of over email.”
“It’s so great to meet you. Thank you for being so helpful and accommodating with the books and letting me know about the signing. It means a lot,” I say.
“It’s my pleasure.” She points to Lola’s books on the table. The stack of five we started the evening with has turned into twelve, an unsteady tower that could fall over at any second. “Mia Dunn fan?”
“If I could get her quotes tattooed on my face, I would,” Lola says. She pushes her chair back and stands beside me. “Her writing is—”
“Poetic, right?”
“Sopoetic. I swear there’s magic in her words. What’s your favorite book by her?”
“How do I pick? I guess Midnight Hour, but I also love Summer Book and Before the Storm.”
I look at Theo, and he lifts a dark eyebrow.
“Expensive hobby,” I say.
He hums. “You’re telling me.”
“Do you work at the bookstore?”
“No.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder to the other side of the building. The walls are full of hammers and boxes of nails. A rickety metal ladder leans against a corner space in the front of the room, and twenty-foot extension cords sit piled high on a table. “Hardware store.”
“Cool,” I say. “That’s handy.”
His eyebrow lifts higher. “Mhmm.”
