Page 75 of Book and Ladder
- M&M
I shut my laptop and close my eyes. I think about M&M—the ease between us. The way our conversations flow without judgment. She’s kind and thoughtful, intelligent and witty. I enjoy her and look forward to her messages and emails—probably more than I should. She’s the antithesis of Daisy—at least where I’m concerned.
Daisy’s naturally nurturing side comes out whenever she interacts with customers or friends—nearly anyone but me. When it comes to us, she’s all fire and sparks. Maybe I’ve always liked her. I can’t tell when the attraction started. Admitting it to myself feels like the opening of Pandora’s box. Being around her and hiding my thoughts and feelings is going to be infinitely more challenging now—like containing flames around a structure that’s been rotting for ages.
Eventually, thoughts about Daisy thin and blur. I sleep through the night in my twin bed, across from Cody. The next morning, I wake and drive home to my duplex where only a paper-thin wall separates me from Daisy Clark.
Chapter 22
Daisy
Mom & Pop stores are not about something small;
they are about something big.
~ Robert Spector
The dayafter a storm always goes one of two ways. Either everyone hunkered down in the rain, so they come out in droves at the first sign of sunshine, or they’re too busy taking care of the aftermath to think about books.
Personally, I’m never too busy to think about books.
The shop has been quiet all morning, so Winona and I restocked the basement for the next emergency this morning. Now I’m heading outside to rake leaves and sweep the sidewalk of debris. I grab my coat to head out the door.
“I’ll be out front!” I shout to Winona and Effie, who are in the back room tidying shelves.
My eye catches on the mat at our entryway. The image of Patrick mopping my shop invades my thoughts again. He didn’t have to clean up after himself. He didn’t even have tocome check on us, though I guess he was merely doing his job. But the mopping was extra—and thoughtful. I feel my face soften. And then my cheeks heat when I think of his eyes holding mine as we tussled for that cup of milk at the chili cook-off. Even now, his effect on me is disturbing. He’s too attractive for his own good. I despise him, but I can’t deny the way he makes my blood boil and my skin tingle. It’s a mess.
I step out the front door, grabbing the broom and swishing it across the porch steps.
I try to muster up my usual warning bells where Patrick O’Connell is concerned, but apparently something shifted last night. He had barreled down the basement stairs, his eyes searching the room until he landed on me. The way he asked if we were alright instantly lifted the weight I’d been shouldering on my own all night. His presence was an anchor, as much as I didn’t want it to be. Dustin, rightfully, only had eyes for Emberleigh. But Patrick would have gone to any lengths to protect each and every person in my shop—including me.
“He’s still Patrick,” I mutter, but the words land with half their usual punch.
More images of Patrick flood me: his smile, posing for the calendar, on our porch, fumbling for words the night of our last town hall.
The town hall.“Daisy. Are you losing your mind? His family is about to bring you to ruin!”
“I know. I know,” I mutter.
Every time I drop my guard and allow myself to soften around Patrick, I pay a steep price.
I shake my head and continue sweeping, singing one of my favorite songs to drown out all thoughts of Patrick O’Connell.
Speaking of the town hall, tonight’s another one. Among the usual business, we’ll iron out Fall Festival details, butmost of the residents of Waterford are only concerned about one thing: the decision about the Home Mart development.
Customer after customer has stood at my counter, advising me not to worry. People say things like, “We’re not a big box town, Daisy. Don’t you fret.” I want to believe them. But we’re not dealing with average humans here. These are the O’Connells, and somehow they always seem to manage to push their own agenda at the expense of everyone around them.
When I step back into the shop, Winona’s waving a small scrap of paper overhead.
“Tom called!” she’s giddy, and my hackles rise. “Tom Winston?”
She waves the paper like a winning lottery ticket.
Tom is a guy I’ve known nearly as long as I’ve known Patrick. He left for a job with the stock exchange years ago. Apparently, he’s been back in town for a few months and he’s eager to reconnect. And, how do I know this? He’s called multiple times this week, and if that weren’t enough, he’s DM’d my socials too. He’s polite, but more persistent than a door-to-door solar salesman.
“Thanks,” I say to Winona, grabbing the paper and promptly tossing it into the trash can next to the register.
Her mouth pops open and she asks, “Why did you do that?”
