Nevermore Bookstore (Townsend Harbor Book 1)

Uncertain

(ŬN-SÛR′TN). NOT CONFIDENT OR ASSURED; HESITANT.

Cady ought to be miserable.

The perfect storm of conditions had conspired to make the opening night of Townsend Harbor’s annual fall festival a living hell.

The day drew near its end with the kind of damp chill that would quickly seep into her bones. The wind off the water was just strong enough to continually wreak havoc with the t-shirts, bookmarks, and bumper stickers she’d had made just for this occasion. And her booth had been relegated to the ass end of the block along with the other festival undesirables.

Technically speaking, the perineum end, seeing as her and Gemma’s displays were sandwiched between Vee’s Lady Garden booth on the right and Fertile Myrtle’s Manure tent—complete with the soft-serve swirl tip of a poop emoji topper—on the left.

Directly across the street, Roy and his junk heap of distinctively un-festive offerings sat beneath the last working streetlight before scenic Water Street gave way to the boatyard, marina, breweries, industrial lots, and one of two strip malls the city council allowed.

On any other day, it would have made maintaining a sunny disposition a real challenge. Today, with the memory of Fox’s rumbling moans in her ear and several phone-sex-induced orgasms under her belt, Cady couldn’t manage to wipe the smile from her face.

“So are you going to tell me what the dopey smile is about?” Gemma plopped her bag down on the folding table where Cady was serenely creating stacks of their paper-bag-covered blind date books. Already, the air already held an intoxicating bouquet of festive scents. Kettle corn. Spiced nuts. Crisp apple cider.

Cady shrugged. “Just having a good body day,” she said.

“Nice try, Bloomquist.” Gemma’s dark brow arched inquisitively. “I know a good body day smile, and that is not a good body day smile.”

“Then what kind of smile is it?” Cady challenged.

“You really want me to say in mixed company?” Gemma jerked her chin toward Bob, who was securing the pole of the shade tent he’d single-handedly set up after dragging the folding table out of storage. A significant improvement over last year’s installation, which saw Cady, Gemma, and Aunt Fern wrestling with the ancient canvas structure her aunt had insisted would be “a cinch” to set up.

Cady pushed the thought away before it could deepen into the ache she had been chasing away at all costs

“Bob? Would you mind grabbing a couple more of those easels for me?” Cady asked. “I think there’s still a few left on—”

“The register,” he finished for her. “On it.”

They watched him stalk away with the single-minded purpose of the T-1000 water-cyborg thing from Terminator 2.

“He’s certainly cleaned up nice.” Gemma bit her thumbnail, her eyes fixed on Bob’s jeans-clad ass.

Cady turned her attention to the garland of flowers made from old book pages Gemma had assembled after seeing one on TikTok. “Uh-huh.”

“Is he still cleaning up in your shower?” her best friend asked not quite casually.

“Sometimes.”

“And eating dinner with you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are these the only ‘sometimes’ activities I ought to be aware of?”

Cady held the garland to the end of the table for Gemma to secure with a clip. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Bob is the cause of what you so judgmentally refer to as ‘a dopey smile.’”

“I’m not suggesting it.” Gemma smoothed the table skirt, picking off an errant dust bunny from the dark cloth. “But it is being suggested within certain circles.”

“And which circles would those be?” Squinting at the arrangement, Cady swapped out a beautiful old leather-bound copy of Moby-Dick for a 1970s cookbook that cotton-candy-sticky fingers would be less likely to ruin.

“The Ethics Society, the Tourism Board, the Civic Engagement Collective. And the city council.” Gemma handed her a second clip. “Just FYI, the city council also feels that it’s too soon for you to be dating after breaking things off with Ethan.”

The buoyant balloon of Cady’s happiness began to deflate.

“My tax dollars at work.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could call them back. “And before you say anything, I wrote the check, it’s sitting on my desk, and I’ll be sending it Monday.”

“Well, that will be one less item for Mayor Stew to yammer on about.”

Cady squatted to pull a canvas tote full of their blind date books out from under the table skirt. “First you complain about my not giving you enough gossip, and now you complain about my giving you too much?”

“It’s not a complaint. Just an observation,” Gemma said, stepping back to assess their display.

“Like you were observing Bob’s ass just now?” Cady teased.

“Can I help it if I’m an aesthete?” Gemma asked. “How long are you planning on keeping our bearded, brawny shop bro, anyhow?”

“As long as he needs the money, or I need the help.” Cady shrugged. “Is this you, or your constituency asking?”

“You know I’m not supposed to tell you official council business,” Gemma said, accepting an armful of books.

“Since when has that mattered?”

Arms folded across a sweater with hand-crocheted leaves, Gemma had a shrewd gleam in her eyes. “I’ll tell you if you tell me what the dopey grin was about.”

“Fine. But we say it at the same time.” This ritual had been established early on in their friendship when Cady discovered Gemma’s unfortunate tendency to forget whatever juicy tidbit she’d been about to relay by the time Cady had ponied up hers. “On the count of three,” Cady said. “One…two…”

“Ethan thinks Bob is wanted—”

“I had accidental phone sex with Fox—”

“What?” they said in unison.

“You had phone se—”

“Shhhht!” Cady hushed, grabbing her best friend’s forearm. “Do you want the whole town to hear?”

“Hear what?” The silky, sophisticated voice of Caryn Townsend floated over them like a veil.

Cady steeled herself, taking a deep breath and plastering on a smile before turning to face the inevitable.

The Inevitable wore a cashmere turtleneck sweater dress of deepest ochre that hugged her still-trim figure and spiky oxblood boots that Cady wouldn’t last five minutes in.

“Hear just how…excited we are about the costume contest,” Gemma said quickly.

Caryn’s eyes flicked over Cady’s quite obvious lack of a thematically appropriate outfit.

“I was actually just about to go change,” Cady explained.

“I just wanted to apologize for the last-minute shuffle,” Caryn said, completely ignoring the perfect exit Cady had created for herself. “I know we promised you one of the spots in the town square, but Meadowlark Farms brought a booth two feet larger than we’d thought, and you know how much of a crowd favorite they are.”

And, by extension, how much of a favorite Cady was not.

But far be it from her to deny anyone the glory that was freshly fried cheese curds. Her salivary glands contracted painfully at the thought.

“I hope you understand it’s nothing personal.” Caryn pouted and squeezed Cady’s wrist with a kid-gloved hand.

“Of course,” Cady said through a brittle smile.

They both knew it was patently bullshit. If she and Ethan were still an item, her book booth would be stationed directly next to Caryn’s, smut or no smut.

“Oh, there’s Mayor Stewart.” Caryn waved down the street. “Don’t these look…festive,” she said, giving Cady and Gemma a simpering smile before pivoting on the slim point of her bootheel and sauntering off.

“Do you smell brimstone, or is it just me?” Gemma picked up one of the book stacks and began arranging them on the secondary layer of easels.

“Just you,” Cady mumbled.

“Quick, tell me everything about the phone sex before Bob gets back.”

A question that might have delighted her even five minutes ago now made her feel small and trashy in the wake of Hurricane Caryn.

Joy was hard to hold in a body like hers. It had a way of hemorrhaging when provided any outlet.

“I don’t really feel like it, Gem,” Cady said, deflated.

“Oh, come on.” Gemma bounced impatiently. “At least tell me what Fox’s orgasm noise sounds like.”

“Gemma!” Cady scolded, rearranging the bookmark tree for the ten thousandth time.

Gemma folded her arms, the bright orange beret perched atop her dark head cocked at a jaunty angle. “He’s not one of those quiet ones, is he? The kind where you’re not sure if they actually came or they’re just thinking real hard?”

Trouble was, in answering her friend’s question, Cady found herself reliving the moment of Fox’s unraveling all over again. His hoarse, shuddering breaths. His grunts and growls and beautifully filthy words. At least she could blame her glowing cheeks on the cold instead of a retroactive sex flush.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Cady said, “but no, he’s not.”

“So, what then?” Gemma asked. “Rutting elk? Silverback in heat? You’ve got to give me something.”

“Well, now you have me worried I did it wrong, because he didn’t make any of those noises.”

“Define ‘wrong,’” Gemma said.

“Like his was all hot, and he used words, and I could barely describe him feeling me up on horseback.”

“Horseback,” Gemma repeated. “Nice touch. What kind of words?”

“I was reading a lot of Outlander at the time,” Cady said. “And words I am definitely not repeating out loud.” Every time she thought about some of the things Fox had said, she found herself with a case of the atomic sweats.

“Please,” Gemma whined, “I told you about the time I had that one-night stand with the traveling pan flute player who had balls the size of avocados.”

“And I’m still trying to forget.”

“Speaking of men who would look like they could be hiding some serious avocados…” Gemma’s teeth sank into her bottom lip as she stared over Cady’s shoulder.

Bob marched down the block toward them, the scowl affixed to his iron jaw enough to send pedestrians scattering to the opposite side of the street.

Cady been so mired in her own verbal shortcomings, she’d nearly forgotten what Gemma said about Ethan thinking Bob might be on the lam.

And now there was no time to ask.

“The second he hits up a Porta-Potty, we’re discussing your half of this,” she told her best friend.

“Can he even fit in a Porta-Potty?”

Valid question.

Bob set the requested easels on the table before her. “These work?”

“Perfectly,” Cady said. “Thanks for doing that.”

“Anyone want anything from the food trucks?” Gemma asked, plucking her wallet out of her bag. “There’s a funnel cake with my name on it.”

Cady looked to Bob as she dug through her cashbox. “What do you want? I’m buying.”

Bob swiveled his shaggy head to look down the block. “I’m good.”

“Are you absolutely positive?” Cady asked. “They have sustainably sourced tilapia tacos, organic free-range smoked turkey legs, kimchi corn dogs—”

“In that case, I’m extra good.”

These moments felt like a victory. To coax humor from a man who had so little reason to own it. She knew nothing about him, and yet she knew him. The same way she knew that water was wet, and the sun was warm, and that carrot cake counted as a salad.

More than once, she caught herself looking forward to the moment when his large frame filled the glass pane of her shop doorway. She’d come to draw comfort from his big, quiet, soothing presence. They never had to talk much, but when they did, the bassy rumble of his voice never failed to lower her blood pressure by a couple points.

“Surprise me,” she told Gemma. Then, peeling off a couple extra bills, “Surprise him too.”

“On it,” Gemma said, mimicking Bob’s earlier acknowledgment.

“Do you think we should put Lenore over here, where she can attract foot traffic?” Cady asked, holding the toothless beaver toward the south corner of their booth. “Or here, where she can greet newcomers?” she suggested, swiveling the squat brown body to the east.

She glanced at Bob, the hairs on the back of her neck rising at the change in his body language. His shoulders were squared, his jaw set. If he had hackles, they’d be raised. Looking past the brick of his fist, she found the reason.

Ethan Townsend, making a beeline right toward them.

Cady’s stomach did a triple Salchow, and the abrupt reversal of gravity was enough to send a late-lunch-flavored burp up her esophagus. She stood a shade too quickly and had to steady herself against the table when the edges of her vision dimmed.

“You okay?” Bob’s ability to sense the slightest shift in her balance, her energy levels, her mood had proven to be more than a little uncanny.

Cady nodded, gulping water to lubricate her suddenly parched throat.

“Evening.” Despite being attired in what Cady had come to think of as his “off-duty ensemble” of stubbornly unfashionable straight-leg jeans and a flannel shirt (neatly tucked in behind a belt, of course), Ethan moved like a man on official business. Boots stationed hip width apart, arms locked in place at his sides where he wouldn’t be tempted to do something so frivolous as browse.

“Howdy.” Howdy? Christ. Could her discomfort be more obvious? “You look ni-erp-ce,” she said, the nice snapped into two syllables separated by another burp.

Apparently, it could.

Double shit.

“In the market for something to read?” she asked. “I have action, adventure, fa-erp-antasy—”

“I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced,” Ethan said, interrupting her dyspeptic sales pitch. “Sheriff Townsend.”

Bob stared down at the hand Ethan had jabbed toward him like a bayonet.

Cady swallowed sand. She was reasonably certain the man at her side could tear Ethan’s arm off and beat him with the ball-socket end if the urge took him—and she really hoped it didn’t—but leaving him hanging was only slightly less painful to witness.

“This is Bo-erp-b.” She nudged Bob’s elbow, and his hand closed over Ethan’s and squeezed for exactly two pumps.

Up. Down. Drop.

The exchange that followed was equally warm and effusive, accompanied by much jaw flexing and eye narrowing.

“Got a last name, Bob?”

“Smith.”

“Whereabouts are you from?”

“All over.”

“What brings you to Townsend Harbor?”

“A train.”

Ethan’s cleft chin notched upward. Bob’s eyes narrowed into slits.

They were deciding how far they wanted to take this. Weighing the content of their mutual grudge against the venue.

Cady had picked up on her unofficial employee’s dislike for the sheriff the night she nearly brained him with a potted plant, but was only now considering that it might have something to do with a past he’d rather not have exposed to Ethan’s eagle-sharp eyes.

“You enjoying the festival so far?” the lawman asked.

Bob shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“Always get lots of folks coming through,” Ethan said, taking a step closer and scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “A little taxing for a small-town police force like this, but for a couple days, we can manage. Once everyone moves off, we have a lot more time on our hands.”

For Ethan, it was as good as slapping Bob’s cheek with a glove.

“Cool,” Bob said. “Maybe you’ll figure out who broke into her store?”

Just when Cady thought they might devolve to Neanderthal grunts and simian chest beating, salvation arrived in the form of Vee and a large scroll tucked beneath her arm.

“Might I conscript one of you strapping lads into service?” she asked, unfurling a cartoonish but exceedingly accurate anatomical drawing. “I need to hang my vagina.”

Ethan stared at the three feet of labia with his mouth slightly ajar, his face turning an adrenal-fatigued shade of puce.

“See, I like to set mine on the radiator and let it dry naturally.” Ever the wing-woman, Myrtle had moseyed over to amplify the interruption.

“I got it,” Bob said, casting a withering look in Ethan’s direction before following Vee toward her very pink tent.

“You are never going to believe what I just heard.” Gemma breezed up with her tray of food truck goodies, completely oblivious to the conversational standoff that had become a stalemate. “Someone bought TrashPanda Hollow.”

Just outside Townsend Harbor proper, the sprawling five-acre parcel had once been a lavender farm and pygmy goat rescue before the elderly couple running it pulled up stakes and moved to Montana to be closer to their son and grandkids. The now-dilapidated barn they’d left behind had proven an irresistible lure for local raccoons, who had successfully defended their fair kingdom against three separate potential buyers over as many years.

“You’re kidding,” Cady said, happy to steer the conversation onto (somewhat) safer ground.

“Dead-ass serious.” Gemma began unpacking the various items, sliding a cardboard trough of kimchi fries toward Cady. “Straight from Judy’s lips. Her friend’s cousin’s daughter knows the realtor who brokered the deal with an out-of-town agent.”

Cady glanced at Ethan, whose left eye had begun to twitch.

“That deal hasn’t been finalized yet,” he ground out.

Of the few personal details he had shared during their brief courtship, Ethan’s desire to buy back what had once been part of the Townsends’ substantial holdings to build his own microbrewery had been mentioned not once, but three separate times. Which was basically the Ethan equivalent of an obsession.

“Judy says it should be inked any day now,” Gemma continued, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “But that’s not the crazy part. The woman who bought it is some sort of burlesque dancer. Judy’s friends’ cousin’s realtor said she just got back from a three-year stint in Paris at the Moulin Rouge. Wouldn’t it be amazing if she started some sort of revue or club out there? This town is so dull I could just—”

Cady covertly kicked her friend’s ankle below the tablecloth.

Red had risen above Ethan’s collar like the mercury in a thermometer. “Better be getting back. Enjoy your evening.”

He didn’t even look at her as he walked away.

“Who took a cattle prod to his O-ring?” Gemma huffed.

“Mayor Pipe Bangs’d be my guess,” Myrtle said.

Gemma and Cady paused mid-bite of their respective carbs to gape at her.

“Saw them getting into it earlier over by the crepe truck. Never seen Ethan grab anyone by the shirt collar before, but I gotta tell you, if I were twenty years younger—”

“You’d still be twenty years too old for him,” Vee pointed out, returning with Bob at her heels. “Are you absolutely certain you won’t accept this a token of my sincere gratitude?” she asked, holding a small, eyedropper-topped bottle out to Bob.

“What is it?” Gemma asked.

“All-natural PH-balanced lubricant,” Vee explained. “Even if you’re just having a wank—”

“I’m good,” Bob said, Adam’s apple bobbing conspicuously. “Thanks, though.”

“If you’re sure,” Vee said. “Looks as if I’d better get back to my quarters,” she said, glancing out at the street.

The first visitors were beginning to filter their way to the Bumfuck Egypt section of the festivities.

“Step right up!” Vee invited with a carnival barker’s vociferous zeal. “Come one, come all.”

“She means it,” Myrtle added, capturing the sleeve of a passing tourist. “Her capsaicin warming lubes will ring your devil’s doorbell in ten seconds flat.”

“There are children present!” Roy shouted, apoplectic with rage.

“And how do you think they got here, duck?” Vee challenged. “Someone had to come in a vagina before they could come out of one. Unless it’s in vitro. In that case, the latter still applies.”

Roy’s sallow face crumpled in a pinched frown as he retreated back to his lair.

“Speaking of female ends, does this need to go somewhere?” Gemma asked, holding up an extension cord.

“Shit snacks!” Cady looked up at the adorable string lights shaped like miniature books she’d found on Amazon. In all the excitement, she’d completely forgotten to plug them in.

Crouching, she felt around below the tablecloth to find the outlets she had seen while they were setting up. A shriek escaped her as her fingers brushed over something furry…and warm.

Time blurred as Bob launched into action, lunging into a swift and graceful ninja crouch and putting himself between Cady and the danger.

The danger blinked out at them from the darkness below the table, his glowing golden eyes sleepy.

“Kevin Costner?” Cady gasped. “How did you get out here?”

“He must’ve been in one of the boxes,” Gemma said. “I thought those t-shirts felt extra heavy.”

“Come here, you,” Cady said, carefully hefting his considerable bulk. “We need to get you back to the shop.”

“I can do it,” Gemma offered. “Your shoulder—”

“It’s not too bad since I lost the sling, actually,” Cady said, too embarrassed to admit that, after their recent bonding session, she didn’t want her four-legged friend changing his mind about their compatibility. “It won’t take me a minute. I should probably grab a lint roller anyway if he was in the t-shirts.”

“Want me to come with?” Bob had phrased it like a question, but his dark eyes blazed with a protective insistence she had never seen there before.

Ethan thinks Bob is wanted…

What else might those eyes be hiding?

“I’m okay,” Cady insisted. “I promise I’ll just be a minute.”

What Cady hadn’t counted on was Kevin Costner becoming an attraction in his own right.

Surrounded by a tightening crush of bodies, Cady’s heart began to hammer in her chest. Phone camera flashes flared off her glasses. Hands probed his fur from all sides, adding weight to the already significant burden in her arms. Overwhelmed by the attention, Kevin had begun digging his claws into her shoulder and hip.

Cady attempted to elbow her way out of the circle, only to have someone else fill the pocket she’d created.

Her verbal attempts to drive them back were even less successful, either ignored by the admirers or eaten up by the noise of the festival.

“Excuse me, could you back up?”

“Oh my God, would you look at him!”

“Please don’t, he’s a service cat.”

“That is an absolute unit! Ashlyn, get a picture for the Longboi group!”

“I just need to get to my store—”

“Is he a real Maine Coon?”

For the first time, Cady began to feel real terror.

What if she dropped him? What if he bolted? She may never see him again in the crowd. The thought of the docile old love lump lost and hungry, hunkered in an alley and wondering where his home was, brought terrified tears to Cady’s eyes.

“Back the fuck up.”

The voice boomed like thunder, scattering the clutch of enthusiasts like startled pigeons.

Bob stood behind her, baring his teeth at one of the kids who didn’t move off fast enough. They were given a wide berth the rest of the way to Nevermore.

“Keys?” Bob asked.

“In my back pocket.” After holding on to the cat for dear life, Cady wasn’t certain she could have unfolded her arms to reach for them if she wanted to.

Bob retrieved them and unlocked the door, herding her inside and shutting it behind them.

With more gentleness than she would have believed a man of his size to have, Bob worked his big hands beneath her arms to lift Kevin and set him down. He then turned his laser-focused attention on Cady.

“You okay?” he asked, scanning her for obvious injuries.

She shook her head, surprised when hot tears spilled down her cheeks. “I was so scared he was going to get away.”

“But he didn’t,” Bob said. “You held on to him. Looks like he held on to you, too.” With the rough pad on his index finger, he pushed the neckline of Cady’s sweater away from her collarbone. “We should get this cleaned up. You have a first-aid kit?”

Cady nodded. “In a box under the register.”

“Sit here,” he said, guiding her down on the chaise.

“This is why I only adopt things that can’t get hurt,” she said, staring at the threadbare Oriental rug. “Can’t count on myself to be able to take care of them.”

“Funny,” Bob said, digging around in the cabinet. “You’ve been taking care of me. And I’m a lot bigger than a damn cat. This one?”

By the time her anxiety-addled brain processed the words, Bob was already opening the box he’d placed on the counter.

And staring down at the colorful assortment of panties inside.

The humiliation she expected to feel failed to materialize. As did the embarrassment she had preassigned to him.

His eyelids lowered, hooding his eyes as his breathing deepened. He looked at her, trailing heat in his gaze.

Was he imagining her wearing them?

Or was Cady only hoping he did?

And why did the thought of his looking at her like that while she stood in front of him in nothing else make her heart beat harder in her chest?

“Tupperware,” she croaked out. “The first-aid kit is in a Tupperware box.”

Bob snapped the lid shut and came back with the supplies. Slipping her sweater from her shoulder, he quickly got to work.

“This the kind of thing they had you doing in the army?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

Goosebumps lifted the fine hair of her arms as his knuckles brushed her collarbone. Which she told herself was a totally normal reaction when a big, handsome man with big, gentle hands was dressing a cat-inflicted wound.

“There,” he said, pressing the bandage down on the no-longer-stinging spot.

From this vantage, she noticed the threads of gold and bronze toward the center of his irises. The thinnest of scars toward the corner of his top lip.

He’d been hurt too.

And whatever his past, Cady would make sure he had a future.