Page 15 of Kane

“You’re two days late,” she teased. “Missed your weekly. Thought I was gonna have to call Edge and ask if you fell off your bike.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said knowingly as she walked around the counter. “Too busy to stop in and say hello? I might start taking it personally.” As she stared up at my face, her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head to the side. “You sleeping enough? You look tired.”

I snorted. “I always look tired.”

“No, you usually look broody. Now you look tiredandbroody. That’s worse.”

I walked past the stack of new releases. “Got a list.”

Taking the paper I held out, she squinted at the names. “These aren’t your usual authors.”

I said nothing.

Her lips twitched. “They’re also all romance.”

Still said nothing.

She grinned. “Must be for someone special.”

“Just get the books, Gloria,” I muttered.

Her lips twitched like she was biting back a thousand jokes. But she just winked and patted my hand. “Give me five minutes.”

While she searched the shelves, I wandered the store. My boots thudded dully on the old wood floors. The ceiling fanturned slowly overhead, doing more to move the scent of paper around than actually cool the place down.

I’d been here enough times to know every section. I liked to read—always had. My dad had handed me an engine manual when I was seven and told me not to ask for help until I finished it cover to cover.

I read it twice in one day.

Gloria came back with a stack. “New releases by four of the authors on your list. Fifth one’s a reprint, but it’s got a bonus epilogue. You want ’em all?”

I nodded once.

“You want me to wrap these?”

“Appreciate it,” I muttered.

She laughed and pulled out kraft paper and twine. “So no one gives you shit?”

“So no one opens their mouth.”

She wrapped the books fast, bagged them up, and leaned on the counter with a smirk. “Tell your mystery girl she’s got excellent taste in fiction. These are spicy.”

“Of course they are,” I grunted.

Her smile turned softer than her sarcasm. “Whoever she is…she’s lucky.”

I didn’t answer.

But she didn’t expect me to.

As I stepped outside, the sun beat down hard, and the salty air off the gulf tangled in my beard. I was halfway to my bike when a voice called out from across the street.

“Yo, Kane!”

I turned to see Dale Rourke, owner of the beach shop across from Bookshell Cove, lifting a hand in greeting.