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“The big bong.”
“What can I say.” I sip my chai. “I took that DARE program very seriously.”
“I can tell.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few blocks, allowing Ozzie to smell every fence, tree, and fuel-efficient car. I’ve only known Martin Butler for a handful of hours, and already I feel more comfortable walking with him than I did with my father earlier. I’m not sure if that says more about me or Martin, but either way, I like spending time with him.
I like the way he walks next to Ozzie, creating a human barrier, whenever a bigger dog passes us. I like the way he takes pictures of the old houses in the neighborhood because he likes the Victorian architecture. At least, I think that’s why he keeps taking those pictures. If there’s a string of burglaries here next week, I guess I’ll finally get the chance to call in to one of those crime tip lines.
I like that he dresses like a normal person. It doesn’t feel like having money has changed him, and that’s refreshing and a little unexpected for Southern California. Despite the suburban feel of Coronado, it’s still in a very monied area of SoCal, which means the people here aren’t just trying to keep up with the Joneses. They’re trying to outdo them. As far as I can tell, Martin doesn’t seem to care about the Joneses. Maybe that’s the blessing of being an outsider from the start, instead of growing up an outsider in a family of natural insiders.
“So, I guess we’ve got another dinner to get through with me being your fake boyfriend,” Martin says as we round the corner of Naval Street. “I hope my second performance is as good as the first.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “You know, it’s your fault that this is happening.”
He lifts his brow. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to help me fill in the blanks on that one.”
“You were supposed to be at Starbucks.” I inhale the rest of my drink and chuck the empty cup into an open garbage can. “You told me you wanted to meet for coffee and had someone you wanted me to meet. I asked if it was Dolly Parton. At the time it made sense since you’re both from Kentucky.”
“Ma’am”—Martin wags his finger at me—“Dolly is from Tennessee.”
“Close enough.” I shrug. “I take Ozzie to meet you and your mystery guest, and I end up running into my dad and meeting Smith and his shiny new girlfriend instead. That’s why this is all your fault.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I guess it is.” He clears his throat. “Seeing as how you have Smith’s number, maybe you can tell him you’re not comfortable with them coming to dinner. He did say that it was up to you.”
“People don’t mean that when they say it, at least not in my experience. Plus, if my dad found out I revoked his invitation, he’d be upset with me because a Banks never goes back on their word. I need a solid twenty-four-hour stretch without fighting with my dad if I have any hope of getting a loan for the Smut Coven.”
He quirks his brow. “Listen, you can’t use the phrase Smut Coven without giving me some details.”
I give Martin the details. In the time that it takes us to walk around my neighborhood block twice, I fill Martin in on everything. I tell him about the girls and the books they write. I tell him about the night we found the perfect building with the big sunny windows that were practically begging to have someone sit next to them and read. I tell him how Jackie helped us build a business plan. She’s a Virgo, so numbers are her thing. Chelsey’s a Cancer, so she’ll make sure the place is beautiful and homey. It’ll be the kind of store people will want to spend hours in and tell their friends about.
For the first time since I boarded the plane back home, I feel excited about the store again. It’s the same sort of electric buzz I get when a new book idea hits me and demands my attention. It’s the kind of passion I need to convey when I’m talking to my father about the loan we need to make this dream a reality. But how the hell do I do that when my father won’t stop talking about Smith Mackenzie and his exotic international travels?
“Why only romance books?” Martin asks. “Wouldn’t it make sense to carry all types of books to appeal to more readers?”
“Because then we’d be like every other bookstore,” I reply. “Romance is the most read genre. It’s the backbone of the publishing industry. But it’s not given half the respect or shelf space that other genres receive. Do you know how many independent bookstores I’ve visited that don’t even have a dedicated romance shelf, let alone a section? A shit ton. But you bet your ass they have a huge travel book section that nobody touches.”
I’m practically levitating. I’ve got so much fiery passion coursing through my veins that I could do nine rounds with a prizefighter and never break a sweat.
“It’s like McDonald’s.” Martin taps his chin thoughtfully. “Nobody likes to admit it’s what they ate for dinner, yet they’re selling millions of burgers every hour across the globe.”
“Exactly!” I give Martin’s shoulder what I think is a playful punch, but seeing how he winces, I may have overdone it. “And we don’t want there to be any shame or guilt associated with romance books. We want our booksellers to be knowledgeable and proud of the books we sell, and we want our readers to feel safe. No judgment. Just guilt-free pleasure.”
“How do you think your dad’s going to react to your pitch?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I say. “I guess I’ve been so caught up in finding an opportunity to make the pitch that I haven’t had time to think about how he’ll react or what he’ll ultimately decide. I mean, the man has never been proud of what I do for a living.”
“That’s not true.” Martin shakes his head. “Not by a long shot.”
“Were we at the same table last night?”
“He’s got this picture of you on his desk. It’s not a professional shot or anything. Just a candid of you sitting in a leather chair with your legs curled up underneath. You’ve got a book in your lap and this little smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, and your curls are piled on top of your head.”
“You sound like you’ve spent a fair amount of time with my picture.” I lift an eyebrow.
“I’m in his office a lot.” Is he blushing? “Anyway, one day he caught me looking at it, so he told me about you.”
I rack my brain trying to place this picture he’s describing, but for the life of me, I can’t. It doesn’t sound like my dad to have such a candid photo in his office on display. A professionally painted portrait of his family? Yes. That’s my dad. School pictures rotating out of metal picture frames every year. That’s Carter Banks. Posed and poised is what my dad prefers, or at least that’s what the Carter Banks I knew did.
