Page 72 of Book and Ladder
The entry of Moss and Maple glows warm yellow in the candlelight. Dustin shuts the door behind us.
“We’re dripping on her floor,” he says.
I shuck my boots and coat in a pile on the mat and he follows suit.
I instantly feel less equipped and more vulnerable without my gear. I pad my way through the hallway to the door leading down into Daisy’s basement. The wind howls at the windows, the rain continues relentlessly pelting the roof.
I open the basement door and shout down. “It’s Patrick and Dustin. We’re coming down!”
“Dustin?” Emberleigh’s voice quavers as she shouts her boyfriend’s name.
“Coming!” he shouts, barreling past me.
I step aside and follow him into the darkness. Once we’re at the bottom of the stairs, the light of phones, flashlights and more battery-operated candles fills the space. About twenty people are huddled in the room, some on chairs, others on the floor.
“Is everyone alright?” I ask, my eyes scanning the room.
Emberleigh is already in Dustin’s arms. He’s holding her to himself and bending to whisper something in her ear.
My eyes lock onto Daisy’s. The candle she’s holding softly illuminates her features.
“We’re okay,” she says in a steady voice.
“I have to pee,” Winona says.
A few people chuckle.
“I’ll walk you upstairs,” I say, breaking eye contact with Daisy to grab my Maglight. I shine the way up the wooden staircase and Winona walks past me.
The storm’s losing steam—the rain softens to a steady patter, the wind less menacing now. I radio Greyson while Winona uses the restroom, and then the two of us walk back downstairs.
“Storm’s letting up a bit,” I announce to the crowd. Turning to Dustin, I say, “Grey says we can start helping people to their cars soon.”
A loud thunk fills the room and then the lights flicker on.
I glance around. Daisy’s hand is resting on June’s back, stroking in a gesture of reassurance.
I suppress a grin. Daisy would hate my appreciation of her leadership and care. For her sake, I’ll remain neutral.
My eyes betray me, drifting back to her. Her long brown hair seems as unruffled as the calm mask schooling herfeatures. Something in her expression tells me she’s holding it together for the sake of everyone else in the room.
She’s beautiful. My chest tightens and I swallow hard.
Daisy.
I can’t want Daisy Clark. She’s the last person I should ever fall for.
I inhale deeply and force myself to focus on helping people move toward the stairs.
“Does anyone want cocoa or tea before you head out?” Daisy offers, walking toward me—actually brushing past me—to head upstairs, leading the way for the guest author and her customers.
A waft of cinnamon lingers behind her. Her nearness is dizzying.
I turn toward the group at the base of the stairs, asking them to form an organized line.
“I thought we ran out of cocoa,” Winona says, tagging behind Daisy.
“I bought more.” Daisy’s words filter down from the top of the stairs.
