“Come on, beautiful. Have fun with me.”
When Indie realizes the only looks we’re getting are quick and curious ones before people go back to their own lives, she nods. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
A warm sense of rightness settles over me as I link our fingers and lead her down the street. We meander through candle shops and small independent galleries. A local roasterie calls us in with the siren call of freshly brewed coffee, and Indie orders something sweet and sugary while I stick to plain coffee with a splash of cream. Once we’re done with the postseason, I’ll bring her back here and ask her to choose something overly sweet for me.
“It’s so cute here,” she muses as we walk down the sidewalk with what feels like everyone else in Minneapolis. The weather is too nice to ignore. People smile and say hello in a show of Midwest-nice that took quite a while for me to get used to after spending the first half of my life on the East Coast. Not that Mainers aren’t nice, but Minneapolis is a completely different ecosystem. I have no doubt Indie’s feeling a bit of that same culture shock.
“It is, right?”
She nods. “I really like it. The vibe is so much more chill. Down to earth.” Her words trail off as her eyes fall on a whimsical pink sign for a bookstore called It’s a Love Story. “Oh. Can we go in there?”
“Of course we can.” Pretty sure this is where Griffin took Mira for an all-the-books-you-can-carry date. I think it’s also where the ladies come to pick out their book-club reads.
The shop is cute. The walls are an explosion of pink, with wall-to-wall shelves packed with books of all different colors. Some are bright and cheerful, while others are darker withmafiain the title. I can see why Mira and the ladies love it here, even if the aesthetic isn’t my thing.
But it’s clearly Indie’s.
Her eyes are wide as she stops inside the door and takes it all in. Tables piled high with books fill the open space in the center of the room. There’s a large, loopy-script neon sign behind the counter that reads It’s a Love Story in hot pink. It’s packed. Women of all ages browse the shelves, talking, giggling, showing books to their friends.
I can’t wait for Indie to have her books in a place like this. Because she will. I believe in her.
“Wow. It’s so cute.”
“Hey, welcome to It’s a Love Story,” a young amber-skinned woman calls from behind the counter. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
“Thanks,” Indie says, wandering to a table in the center of the store. Her eyes are on a display of colorful books with illustrated covers. Griffin keeps us all up-to-date on the romance books he and Mira read, and those cute-looking books often contain stories that would make you blush.
Picking one up, I read the synopsis on the back. It’s about a woman who’s down on her luck and returns to her hometown in shame, only to be swept off her feet by the one who got away. “This one sounds good,” I say, flipping it over to see if the author is one I’ve heard of. “Violet Quinn. I think the ladies have read one of her books in book club. Or maybe Griffin has talked abouther? I swear her name is familiar, though. Have you heard of her?”
Indie picks up a copy of the book and stares intently at the back. Her foot taps the carpeted floor, and her cheeks flush pink. She must have read it, and it must be spicy. Not that she should be embarrassed by any of that.
She clears her throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve heard of her.”
“She’s my favorite,” the woman from behind the counter says, walking up to us. “Her stories are my favorite escape. I seriously can’t wait for her next one. We’ve been in contact with her publisher because we’dloveto host her for an event, but we haven’t had any luck. No one knows who she really is, and I don’t think she’s ever done any public appearances.”
“Very mysterious,” I say, grinning at the employee’s enthusiasm.
She nods. “She is. I bet she’s so cool. We all hope she’ll do an identity reveal someday.”
Indie picks up another one of the mysterious author’s books and studies the back cover. “This one’s my favorite.”
The employee holds a hand over her heart. “Ohmygod, me too. The hero is totally swoon-worthy in that one. I love a strong, silent type.”
Indie’s gaze jumps to meet mine for a moment before returning to the book. “Yeah, me too.”
“Well, let me know if you need any recommendations or anything.” The associate gives us a wave before hurrying back to the counter to ring a customer up.
“Strong, silent type, huh?” I take the book from Indie’s hand and step closer to her. Primal satisfaction fills me when her breath hitches. “Is that what you like?”
“When they’re strong and silent on the outside, but soft and gooey on the inside,” she says. “Softness in men is underrated.”
My fingers itch to touch her, so I give in and let them skim the paint-speckled apples of her cheeks. “Is it?”
She nods. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good to know.” If softness is what she wants, softness is what she’ll get. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, I lean down and press a tender kiss to Indie’s lips. I don’t deepen the kiss, because we’re standing in the middle of a crowded bookstore, but I wish I could.
“Do you want me to get you that book?” I ask against her lips.