Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) by Alison Kent Page A
Authors: Alison Kent
Ads: Link
lack of sleep, the trial and error, dealing with new vendors and new employees, Lena as well as the occasional temp, and a new relationship with his mom and dad.
He’d do it all again. He’d do it ten times over.
Because he was doing it all for the little girl sitting at the bar drinking milk, eating bacon and eggs, and talking to a goofy-looking snowman. The little girl who was his whole life, who was his whole heart.
Sitting cross-legged in the far back corner of Cat Tales, the best new and used bookstore in the world, Brooklyn reached for a long-out-of-print Penelope Williamson title and read the description on the back. Or she tried to read the description on the back. The words weren’t cooperating, keeping her from remembering if she’d read this one before. Mostly likely she had.
Still, there was a chance Jean had not. She added it to the stack at her hip on top of a Kathleen Woodiwiss, as if she needed yet another huge trade paperback on her not-even-a-year-old bookcase. She didn’t, and she knew it. She also knew why she was here, and it had nothing to do with books.
Her visit was about her life turning upside down, first by Bianca’s pleas that she stay in Italy to teach, and now by her attraction to Callum Drake.
When she worried about upcoming dates—a new school year, an annual checkup, an international flight—or when she needed a distraction—the amount of time she spent thinking about Callum proved she did—she browsed her two favorite bookstores: Cat Tales and Amazon. Her poor Kindle. Her poor credit card. Her poor not-even-a-year-old bookcase.
She reached for a Michelle Willingham book set in 1305 Scotland, only to find a pair of bright yellow eyes that belonged to the store’s mascot staring at her from the shelf above. No way. Uh-uh. This was not a sign. But the big gray tabby using the row of books as a bed did explain why her eyes were suddenly watering.
“You’re lying on my Willingham, sir. I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away with that.”
He answered with a big yawn that seemed to be more about showing off his canines than anything.
“Oh. Is that so? You’re a fan of mysterious stable boys and maidens and castles with no running water, too?”
Another teeth-baring yawn, and a long reaching stretch; then the cat eased from the shelf into her lap, curling up and making himself at home in the cradle of her crossed legs.
“No, no, no. This isn’t happening,” she said, laughing to herself as the cat began to purr, loudly, the rumble against her thighs bringing to mind Callum’s bike. See? This was what she was talking about. Why couldn’t she shake her thoughts of him?
It was ridiculous, this fascination. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known handsome men before. Artie’s crew could’ve posed for a firefighter calendar and made buckets of cash.
Of course, her being Artie’s wife meant none of them ever regarded her the way Callum had from her classroom door. Or later, in her kitchen. Thinking of how he’d looked at her after she’d downed the piece of chocolate at Bliss, or when she’d held his hand to get a closer look at his Tennyson tattoo . . .
How could she possibly be feeling so strongly about a man who’d only come into her life this weekend? And why was she going over this again when she’d told herself not two nights ago that none of the things between them could matter? Hope Springs had been her home for thirteen years, and in four months she’d be leaving for who knew how long? Callum was staying. His business was here, his family was here, his daughter went to school here.
No doubt one day he’d have a wife, and a passel of little red-headed Irish rogues running riot across an expanse of lawn as green as his homeland. Not that Ireland was actually his homeland, but she was sitting in the romance section, and dammit, she would give her imagination its due.
“I’ve been reading about too many knights on horseback crossing miles of
He’d do it all again. He’d do it ten times over.
Because he was doing it all for the little girl sitting at the bar drinking milk, eating bacon and eggs, and talking to a goofy-looking snowman. The little girl who was his whole life, who was his whole heart.
Sitting cross-legged in the far back corner of Cat Tales, the best new and used bookstore in the world, Brooklyn reached for a long-out-of-print Penelope Williamson title and read the description on the back. Or she tried to read the description on the back. The words weren’t cooperating, keeping her from remembering if she’d read this one before. Mostly likely she had.
Still, there was a chance Jean had not. She added it to the stack at her hip on top of a Kathleen Woodiwiss, as if she needed yet another huge trade paperback on her not-even-a-year-old bookcase. She didn’t, and she knew it. She also knew why she was here, and it had nothing to do with books.
Her visit was about her life turning upside down, first by Bianca’s pleas that she stay in Italy to teach, and now by her attraction to Callum Drake.
When she worried about upcoming dates—a new school year, an annual checkup, an international flight—or when she needed a distraction—the amount of time she spent thinking about Callum proved she did—she browsed her two favorite bookstores: Cat Tales and Amazon. Her poor Kindle. Her poor credit card. Her poor not-even-a-year-old bookcase.
She reached for a Michelle Willingham book set in 1305 Scotland, only to find a pair of bright yellow eyes that belonged to the store’s mascot staring at her from the shelf above. No way. Uh-uh. This was not a sign. But the big gray tabby using the row of books as a bed did explain why her eyes were suddenly watering.
“You’re lying on my Willingham, sir. I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away with that.”
He answered with a big yawn that seemed to be more about showing off his canines than anything.
“Oh. Is that so? You’re a fan of mysterious stable boys and maidens and castles with no running water, too?”
Another teeth-baring yawn, and a long reaching stretch; then the cat eased from the shelf into her lap, curling up and making himself at home in the cradle of her crossed legs.
“No, no, no. This isn’t happening,” she said, laughing to herself as the cat began to purr, loudly, the rumble against her thighs bringing to mind Callum’s bike. See? This was what she was talking about. Why couldn’t she shake her thoughts of him?
It was ridiculous, this fascination. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known handsome men before. Artie’s crew could’ve posed for a firefighter calendar and made buckets of cash.
Of course, her being Artie’s wife meant none of them ever regarded her the way Callum had from her classroom door. Or later, in her kitchen. Thinking of how he’d looked at her after she’d downed the piece of chocolate at Bliss, or when she’d held his hand to get a closer look at his Tennyson tattoo . . .
How could she possibly be feeling so strongly about a man who’d only come into her life this weekend? And why was she going over this again when she’d told herself not two nights ago that none of the things between them could matter? Hope Springs had been her home for thirteen years, and in four months she’d be leaving for who knew how long? Callum was staying. His business was here, his family was here, his daughter went to school here.
No doubt one day he’d have a wife, and a passel of little red-headed Irish rogues running riot across an expanse of lawn as green as his homeland. Not that Ireland was actually his homeland, but she was sitting in the romance section, and dammit, she would give her imagination its due.
“I’ve been reading about too many knights on horseback crossing miles of
Similar Books
