Page 17 of The Fake Out

“You don’t even know me.” I rolled my eyes. “I could have the bodies of the last three people who asked me to be in a book club buried in my backyard.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in amusement. “Do you?”

“Would I tell you if I did? No, because we are not friends. Especially not friends who share where the bodies are buried.”

“Aren’t you the librarian of this fine establishment?”

Glaring, I crossed my arms.

“And isn’t the primary goal of a librarian to encourage literacy?”

I huffed in reply.

“And,” he continued with conviction, “wouldn’t a book club do exactly that? You’d be encouraging me to read. You’d be expanding my mind.”

“You are full of crap,” I said.

A grin slid across his face. “Fine. The real reason? You haven’t cared at all about who I am. It’s kind of nice. You remind me of my sisters.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You read romance novels with your sisters?”

“They read them. I never have. But it seems like a good way to get to know a new friend.”

“A new friend?” I had no time for new friends. Ali was about all I could handle after Iris and Mama.

“I’m an excellent friend to have. Would you like references?” He pulled his phone out and started scrolling through his phone book. “Here’s Sherrod. Great guy. He’s on the team with me. I could call him. Or Phillip Monaghan. Been one of my best friends since fourth grade when he dared me to lick a slug and I did it. I’ve helped him out the last two times he moved. I’m the kind of friend who helps you move. There aren’t many of us.”

“Okay, I get it.” I nibbled my bottom lip and looked down at the book. The sexy pirate romance book. Then I studied his face. With the shaggy hair and the hopeful, determined smile, he had an almost boyish quality. A very stubborn, irritating boyish quality.

“You aren’t going to leave me alone until I agree to this, are you?”

He rocked back on his heels. “Nope.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

“Excellent.” He held his hand out to shake on it. I slid my palm across his and something terrible happened. A tingle started at my fingertips and went right up my arm. Like a jolt. I pulled my hand back and stared at it.

If he’d felt it, he didn’t react at all. “I’m glad you came around to my way of thinking.”

“I have a rule,” I said quickly.

“Go ahead.”

I cleared my throat. “No one needs to know about this book club, okay?”

Most people knew me as practical, no-nonsense Mae Sampson. I suspected they all saw me as a “serious” fiction reader, not wasting my time daydreaming about sexy pirates on the open seas. But I did.

Still, I kept it a secret from everyone, almost embarrassed by my love of romance. It wasn’t the kissing (and the other, ahem, stuff) that drew me to a good romance. It was that romances were, in the end, about hope. Even when it seemed impossible. Despite having seen love destroy my mom bit by bit, I guess I still believed in that hope.

“Understood,” he said solemnly, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. He turned to leave but when he got to the door, he snapped his fingers and jogged back. “So, can I have your number?”

“Was that a pickup line?” My eyebrow arched. “I expected better from God’s gift to women.”

He preened. “I think dreamboat is more appropriate, don’t you?”

“I’m guessing you did not get the Humbleness badge.”

He laughed. “And that was not a pickup line. You’ll know when it’s a pickup line. Give me your phone.”