Page 58 of Bourbon Bliss
There was an odd sense of loss mixed with relief. Callie had been found, her mystery solved. Everyone agreed it was a good end. She was alive and well. But it had ended so abruptly, it was hard to shake off over twelve years of speculation, curiosity, and hope.
I had enough to keep me occupied, so that little splinter of doubt about Callie Kendall waited in the back of my brain. I knew it was there, but I didn’t turn my attention to it. There was work, and I was brought in to help with a risk analysis and sales plan.
And there was George.
I was falling for George Thompson. The logical part of my brain recognized these strong feelings for exactly what they were. Noticed them, saw their brightness. Their warmth and innate appeal. I liked these feelings, even though I was often confused by them.
Why was an evening snuggling with George and Mellow watching SportsCenter so much better than doing the exact same activity at home? Or with my dad? Why did my heart beat faster when I knew George was coming to pick me up for a date?
And the touching. I’d never been one to relish a great deal of physical contact. I liked my space, and I’d never found touch to be a compelling way to bond with other humans.
Not so with George. Those enormous hands of his roamed across my body—respectfully, of course—and I loved every bit of it. Couch snuggles, hand-holding, arms around my waist. Kissing. Oh, the kissing. His kisses were so distracting, I’d never once thought to ask ahead of time if he’d flossed recently.
I was curious about this newfound emotional resonance I was experiencing. I didn’t understand it, but in this case, it wasn’t triggering my instinct to shy away. I wanted to dive into it. Experience more. George had told me more than once,don’t think, just feel. And I wanted to. I wanted to try feeling all sorts of things.
So I did what one should always do when faced with a topic about which they’d like to learn more. I went to the library.
The Bootleg Springs Library was right downtown, housed in one of the oldest buildings still standing. Its brick façade was a little crumbly, but still inviting. Brand-new wooden steps led up to a landing that Scarlett had fixed just last summer. She’d replaced the worn wood that had been so rotten Millie Waggle had gotten her foot stuck, pulling her shoe clean off.
Inside it smelled like heaven—leather, old paper, and a hint of lemon from the polish the librarian, Piper Redmond, liked to use on the surface of the front counter to keep it shiny.
I stepped inside and took a deep breath. This library was one of my favorite places on earth. It wasn’t particularly large, as far as libraries went. Nor was it fancy. I’d been to others that were far more grand, or housed old and important books. This library was simple, but it was home. I’d spent hours of my childhood within these walls, curled up with a book.
My parents had encouraged my love of reading but had always been puzzled by my choices. While Cassidy was reading theBaby-Sitters Club, I was checking out books on astronomy and physics. I read Carl Sagan’sCosmoswhen I was eight. I’d devoured anything that had to do with science, and later, math. Cassidy had been dumbstruck when I’d brought home college math textbooks so I could do the problems for fun.
My brain craved that sort of stimulation. Without it, I felt twitchy and restless. As long as I was soaking up knowledge about something, I was happy.
I wandered past the non-fiction area—those shelves I knew so well—and stared at a place of unknowns. Fiction.
I’d expanded my horizons beyond science texts as a young teenager when my dad had hooked me on sports. Then I’d started devouring books on sports statistics and athlete biographies. It had started with baseball—batting averages were easy to calculate and interesting to follow. But football had excited me in a way other sports hadn’t. There was an element of chance to the game that numbers couldn’t account for. A brutality to it that had made it especially stimulating to follow.
But reading fiction? I’d never bothered unless it had been assigned reading in school.
“Hey, June. Are you looking for something in particular?” Piper asked.
Piper Redmond was nothing like a stereotypical small-town librarian. She had a pixie cut that changed colors every week, more piercings than I could count, and a riot of colorful tattoos all over her body. She was a Bootleg transplant, having moved here to take over the library eleven years ago. Despite her loud exterior, Piper’s demeanor was subdued. She spoke softly and had read more books than anyone I’d ever known.
“Yes,” I replied. “I need books with lots of feelings.”
“Hmm.” Piper tapped her finger against her lips. “What sorts of feelings?”
“All of them.”
She smiled. “Then I know just what you need.”
She led me to the romance section. My first instinct was to scoff, but I knew better than to question her. She’d given me countless recommendations over the years, and she’d never once steered me wrong. If she thought I should read romance novels, I’d trust her.
I waited, holding out my arms so she could deposit her selections in a growing stack for me to carry. She chose six books of varying thicknesses, all displaying passionate couples or attractive men on the covers.
“You can’t go wrong with any of these,” she said. “Fair warning, they’ll rip your heart to shreds, but put it back together quite nicely.”
“That sounds like the sort of book I’m looking for.”
“Need help with anything else?” she asked, depositing one more on top.
“No, these should keep me busy for a few days.”
“There’s more where these came from,” she said. “If you like one in particular, let me know, and I can suggest more that are similar.”
