You think? I bet she doesn’t think I’m too old. Why don’t you ask her? (Barrons said that just to irritate him. Of course, I think he’s too old for me. Not that I think about him that way at all.)

I’m taking her home.

Try. (Barrons can be a man of annoyingly few words.)

She’ll choose me over you, Dad told him proudly.

Barrons laughed.

“Mac, baby,” my dad said without ever taking his eyes off Barrons, “get your things. We’re going home.”

I groaned. Of course, I’d choose my dad over Barrons, if given a fair choice. But it wasn’t a fair choice. I hadn’t been given many of them lately. I knew my refusal was going to hurt him. And I needed to hurt him, because I needed to make him leave.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, but I’m staying here,” I said softly.

Jack Lane flinched. His gaze cut away from Barrons to stab at me with cool reproof, but not before I saw the hurt and betrayal beneath the lawyer-face he didn’t paste on quick enough to mask.

Barrons’ dark eyes gleamed. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

I went with Dad to the airport the next morning to see him off.

Last night I wouldn’t have believed I’d get him to go, and frankly I’m not sure I’m the one that did.

He’d stayed at the bookstore, in one of the extra fourth-floor bedrooms, and kept me up until three o’clock in the morning, arguing every angle he could think of—and believe me, attorneys can wear you out with them—trying to change my mind. We’d done something we never do: gone to bed mad at each other.

This morning, however, he’d been an entirely different man. I’d woken up to find him already downstairs, having coffee with Barrons in the study. He’d greeted me with one of those big all-encompassing hugs I love so much. He’d been relaxed, affectionate, his usual charismatic self, a man that, even at twice their age, had made most of my high school girlfriends giggle like morons. He’d been robust, cheerful, in all-around better spirits than I’d seen him since Alina’s death.

He’d smiled and shaken Barrons’ hand when we’d left, with what had looked like genuine friendliness, even respect.

I suppose Barrons must have confided something of himself in my father that revealed a hidden integrity of character I have yet to see, that set Jack Lane’s legal-eagle mind at ease. Whatever he and Barrons had found to talk about, it’d worked wonders.

After a quick stop at Dad’s hotel to grab his luggage, a bag of croissants, and coffee, we filled our time on the way to the airport discussing one of our favorite topics: cars and the new designs unveiled at the latest auto show.

At the terminal I soaked up another hug, sent my love to Mom, promised to call soon, and managed to make it back to the bookstore just in time to open up for business.

I had a good day, but I’ve begun to realize that’s when life likes to kick you in the teeth—the moment you start to relax and let your guard down.

By six o’clock, I’d had fifty-six patrons, rung up an impressive amount of sales, and discovered that I loved being a bookseller. I’d found my calling. Instead of serving drinks and watching people turn into drunken idiots, I was being paid to give people wonderful stories to escape into, full of mystery, mayhem, and romance. Instead of splashing anesthetizing alcohol into glasses, I was pouring fictional tonics to alleviate the stress, hardship, and drudgery of their lives.

I wasn’t corroding anybody’s liver. I didn’t have to watch balding, middle-aged men hitting on pretty young coeds, trying to recapture their glory days. I wasn’t deluged by the sordid sob stories of the recently and so often well deservedly jilted, while I stood behind my counter. I didn’t have to watch a single person cheat on their spouse, urinate on the floor, or pick a fight all day.

At six o’clock, I should have counted my blessings and closed early.

But I didn’t, and just when I was starting to feel almost happy and good about myself, my life went to hell again.

SEVEN

N ice place you have here,” said my latest customer, as the door banged shut behind him. “I wouldn’t have thought the interior was so big from out on the sidewalk.”

I’d had the same thought the first time I entered Barrons Books and Baubles. The building just didn’t look large enough on the outside to contain all the room it held on the inside.

“Hi,” I said. “Welcome to Barrons. Are you looking for something special?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” I told him. “If we don’t have the book you want in stock, we can order it, and we’ve got some great collectibles up on the second and third floors.” He was a good-looking man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, dark-haired and nicely built. I seem to be surrounded by attractive men lately.