Page 11 of The Fall Classic

“Don’t apologize. It was funny.”

“I would bring Shakespeare,” she says in an apologetic tone. “I really wasn’t trying to sound so judgmental. I talk books with people a lot.”

“Oh, do you work at the library? Or a bookstore?”

Her face is still tomato red, and she looks around. Before she can open her mouth, Alma is standing in front of us, putting a frothy protein-boosted drink in front of me and what smells like a Mexican hot chocolate in front of Georgiana, although I didn’t remember her ordering.

I glance up at Alma.

“I know all my favorite customers’ drinks,” the older woman says, and I narrow my eyes at her.

If Georgiana is one of her favorite customers, why couldn’t Alma give me more than a shrug any of the dozens of times I’ve come in looking for her? No indication of when she comes in, where she’s been, nothing. She played unofficial matchmaker to Lucas and Scottie all last year, for Pete’s sake.

Just another way I pale in comparison to my brother.

“Is that all I am?” Georgiana’s teasing Alma, and I look between the two of them. “Our families have been close for a long time,” she tells me. “Alma’s my godmother.”

“She’s everyone’s godmother but mine,” I mutter into my vanilla milk. But Alma must hear it, because she snorts.

“On the house,” she says before leaving us.

Georgiana and I both look at each other. Then at our drinks. Then at each other again. We’re like something out of a Disney movie, like Lady and the Tramp. I wish I’d ordered spaghetti.

Not that I’m thinking of kissing her already. I’m not a total creep.

“So, what were you saying?” I ask.

“Ten books you’d take with you on a desert island. And assume that your scriptures of choice are already there.”

“That was thoughtful of whoever stranded me on the island,” I say.

She grins, and her dimples flash beneath her rich brown eyes. I’ve been around blue eyes my whole life, and I’ve always loved them. But Georgiana’s irises have rings to them, like a tree, and every other eye color seems boring by comparison.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to give me a straight answer on these books?” she asks.

I pull myself together. “Oh, I’m never giving you an answer. Imagine you were a parent with a thousand kids and could only bring ten of them with you. That’s how crazy your question sounds.”

“You mean easy.”

“Easy? In what universe would picking your kids be easy?”

“I’d pick the ones who’d be the most resourceful but who also had the least to lose. Being stranded on an island is dangerous.”

I take a drink, hiding my smile as the cool, creamy sweetness hits my mouth. “You’re surprisingly pragmatic.”

“Surprisingly?” she asks with a laugh. “I can’t be sure, but that sounds almost judgmental.”

“Touché.” We both take a drink. “So you’ve clearly given this some thought. What would you take?”

“I have no idea,” she says. “Anyone who could pick that easily has to be an alien.”

I cough a laugh, almost choking on my drink. “Well, at least you have Shakespeare.”

“But only so I can establish my literary credentials,” she assures me. “Not because King Lear always makes me sob like a baby.”

“Is now too early to admit I only read it in eighth grade when I was in my ‘I need to read all of Shakespeare so people think I’m smart’ phase?”

She giggles into her hot chocolate. “It’s too late, actually. You should have led with that.”