Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 20927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 105(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
“This feels like a movie,” I whisper, swept up by the magic.
“It’s nicknamed the butterfly house. Hold out your hand like this,” he says, showing me how.
I copy his motion and when a yellow butterfly lands on my fingers, I can’t help giggling. “It tickles.”
“That’s an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail. It’s our state butterfly,” he explains before going on to point out the various types of butterflies in the greenhouse. Listening to his rich baritone as he talks with such affection about nature makes me smile.
“Can you take my picture here?” I ask and pass him my phone at his nod.
He positions the camera. “Say cheese.”
Before I know what he’s doing, he presses a soft kiss to my cheek. His beard brushes my smooth skin. It’s soft, not scratchy like I expected, and I know I have to be blushing in the picture he took. Is it possible to fall for someone this quickly?
4
GRAY
This is not a good idea. I know it’s not. I shouldn’t be trying so hard to delight Piper. I shouldn’t care what she thinks or love that little blush that stained her cheeks when I took the selfie of us together. But this isn’t like Jane. This is different because I put my heart all in back then. I won’t make that mistake again.
“This is our next adventure?” She asks as she surveys the red awning over the tiny used bookstore. This one is my favorite and I’ve told myself I’m just taking her here because she’s a writer. They like books and stuff, right? It has nothing to do with wanting to share one of my favorite spots with her.
“It’s perfect!” She breathes before I can even answer. She’s scrambling out of the truck before I can open her door and I scowl.
I’ve got three sisters, so I know a woman can open her own door. But I’d still rather do it. Where I come from, it’s a sign of respect and reverence for a woman.
I hurry to catch up to her, smiling at the way the breath leaves her lungs when she steps foot into the bookstore. Some people feel a sense of peace and calm when they enter a church or a garden. For me, it’s a bookstore.
The familiar smell of old pages, worn carpet and coffee tickles my nose. There’s a soft hum of muted voices and the squeal of a child’s laughter as a little toddler delights in a book about a wiggly caterpillar. The sunlight streams through the big bay windows, illuminating the dust specks dancing in the air.
“I always feel at home in places like this,” Piper tells me.
“I spent my teenage years in this store. It was my own little escape,” I tell her. I don’t talk much about my growing up years. They’re a place I never want to go back to, a time when I was so hungry I’d search drink machines for quarters, hoping I could afford our family’s next meal.
Mrs. Nancy skirts around the ancient cash register tucked in the corner of the store and waddles toward me. She’s barely five feet and nearly as round as she is tall. But she did her best to look after a hurting boy and for that, I’ll always be grateful. “Look at you! Ain’t seen you in forever. Lord, you’re a wastin’ away!”
I pat my stomach even as I feel my cheeks pinken beneath my beard. My big, burly frame has never bothered me. But I don’t exactly want her calling attention to it in front of the beautiful woman I’m with. “This is Piper, Mrs. Nancy. She writes books.”
“Oh, another author! What do you write?”
“Nothing published,” she murmurs. “Just some little books in my spare time. Not even anything worth mentioning.”
Mrs. Nancy waves a hand. “Never dismiss something that lights your soul up.”
I can sense Piper’s discomfort with the topic, so I tell Mrs. Nancy, “We’re just going to look around for a bit. Maybe grab a couple of those pumpkin spice lattes of yours.”
“Sure thing.” She moves to the café area to fix us some lattes, the bracelets on her wrist rattling as she works. When she’s done, I try to pay her, but she waves me off. I don’t think I’ve ever paid for a drink or sandwich here. Mrs. Nancy simply wouldn’t hear of it.
After, Piper and I wonder through the aisles of aged books with their yellowed pages and the newer books with their crinkled corners, the ones deemed no good by other booksellers because of the tiniest little flaws.
We take turns pointing out books we’ve read and love while we drink our weak coffee drinks. We wonder aloud what the author’s inspiration was and how some books get lost to time, seemingly forgotten only to be discovered in tiny shops like this one.