Nikki pouted pink lips. “The whole sister bond thing. Come on, Carrie. Nearly four years have passed since—”
Carrie pointed a finger, expression stern. “Do not go there, Nikki.”
“Then get over it. No one even remembers anymore.”
“You do.”
Nikki huffed. “I wouldn’t if you’d move on and get a life.”
“I am over it. I have moved on. That’s why I’m saving for a house.”
Hers wasn’t Nikki’s or Bailey’s idea of a life, but Carrie had learned to be content. She’d accepted the fact, thanks in large part to “the incident,” that she was as ordinary and uninteresting as a slice of plain white bread. And she was okay with that. Most of the time.
“Go to Hawaii,” she said. “Get a great tan, see a real volcano and a rain forest.” All the reasons Carrie would love to visit Hawaii. “You can Skype me from Waikiki Beach with a hunky Hawaiian on your arm and say, ‘I told you so.’”
Nikki’s eyes squinted in suspicion. “You’re a coward, Carrie Leanne. You’re scared to death to get out of this town and do something. You’re terrified of making the same mistake—”
Carrie quickly interrupted. “Remember when we went to Graceland? That was fun.”
“Out of Tennessee, Carrie.” Nikki rolled her well-mascaraed eyes. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life stuck in this library if you don’t branch out a little. Really, Carrie, don’t you want to meet people?”
“I meet people every day.”
“I meant people as in the single male variety, not the shut-ins and bookworms and computer geeks you meet through the library.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. But did you see those shoes Maggie had on?”
“No, I didn’t. And you shouldn’t be so shallow as to judge a woman by her shoes.” Carrie fought the urge to glance at her own discount store flats. “Don’t you have a boutique to run?”
Nikki flipped a nonchalant hand. “Bailey’s in the shop today. She can handle the customers.”
Carrie’s two older sisters co-owned the Sassy Sisters Boutique. Nikki coordinated the fashion end while Bailey managed the business details and kept spendthrift Nikki firmly in check. Theirs was the perfect partnership and one they’d tried to interest Carrie in, another case of the oddball sister who couldn’t quite fit.
The week had barely begun and already she’d had too many reminders of how drab and pathetic she was. Like a sharp knife in the throat, she’d never forget the moment she’d accepted the truth. No one needed to remind her ever again.
Yet she knew they would.
“Then you’ll excuse me,” Carrie said. “I have work, even if you don’t.”
“You’re overwhelmed with customers.” Nikki’s index finger bobbed up and down as she counted. “Seven.”
Though she loved them, her sisters had the power to drain her.
“Patrons. And computer three needs to move on so the next patron can take over.” Happy for an excuse to escape, Carrie went to the computer section and quietly reminded the bearded man that his time was up.
He scowled, thick eyebrows coming together. “I’m not done.”
“You’re playing a game, sir.” “Zombie Zap,” for pity’s sake. “Other patrons are waiting for the computer. So please, log out.”
With a growl, the man logged out, shoved back his chair and stalked out of the library. If he’d been a real zombie, she’d be toast right now.
Carrie tooled through the library, shelving a book here and there, stopping to point out the biography section to a woman in shorts and flip-flops before returning to the front.
She was sliding a weathered copy of Wuthering Heights into its exact spot—823.8—when her sister rounded the end of the stack.
“I thought you left,” Carrie said.
“Isn’t it cool having a famous novelist staying in Honey Ridge? At Julia’s inn, no less.”
A little jitter danced in Carrie’s stomach. “He’s researching a book.”
“Really? Then I guess that explains why he just walked in the door.”
“Here? In the library?” From her spot behind several rows of books she couldn’t see the front, but she craned her head in that direction anyway.
“He’s not a rock star, Carrie. I didn’t even recognize him.”
He was a star in the literary world, though Nikki wouldn’t know that.
“Most people wouldn’t recognize John Grisham or Nicholas Sparks if they met them on the street, either. Authors’ names and books, yes, but their faces? Not so much.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Have you ever read one of his novels?”
Nikki looked shocked at the very idea. “All that violence? Not on your life. Valery had to tell me who he was. She thinks he’s hot.”
“Valery thinks anyone with testosterone is hot.” So what if Carrie had thought the same thing the other night in Julia’s kitchen. She had an excuse. The storm had rattled her nerves and he’d been kind, not only to her but to Brody. He’d given up his bed and his rest for the pitiful little boy. In Carrie’s book, a man who showed kindness was hot with a capital H.
Nikki, still standing at the end of the stack, gaped toward the entrance. “Oh, my goodness.”
“What?”
“Ferragamo!”
“Who?”
Nikki tossed her head and made a disgusted noise. “I swear, sometimes I wonder if we share any DNA at all. The man is wearing Ferragamo loafers.”
“What man?”
“Hayden Winters! The man we’re discussing.” Nikki let out a long sigh. “Ferragamo. Such fabulous taste. His hotness rating has officially sailed off the meter.”
“He’s more than a pair of shoes, Nikki. He’s a nice, ordinary guy who likes strong coffee and Oreo cookies and isn’t afraid of storms.”
Nikki eyed her sister with speculation. A perfectly groomed pair of black eyebrows rose in a higher arch.
Carrie could never get her eyebrows to look that good.
“I thought you were busy rescuing the drenched boy.”
“Before that. The storm scared me. Don’t roll your eyes. I can’t help it. I came downstairs to watch the weather on TV.”
“And your hottie writer pal was already there?”
“He was trying to find the coffeepot. I showed him. We made coffee.”
“You must have nearly fainted when you learned who he is. I mean, you being a bookworm and all. Valery’s right. He’s not hard to look at, even if he’s older by a few years.”
Late thirties. Maybe even forty. When a guy looked that good, age didn’t matter.
“It was storming, Nikki,” Carrie said in exasperation. “You know how I feel about storms. I would have hung out with anyone wearing skin. I didn’t care if the guy was a writer or a skid-row bum.”
She might be stretching the truth a little, but she had been deeply relieved at