Page 11 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)
CODY
The bar was still buzzing after Brooks bolted.
Bea was flouncing, and Bo Harlow was nursing his latest bruise in the corner, but my night felt suddenly quieter.
The stool next to me was empty and I felt…
alone… which is something I rarely experienced, even if I was by myself on a mountaintop in Peru or snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef with nothing but the occasional curious sea turtle for company.
While Bea was busy hauling a drunken Bo off to some undisclosed location to the soundtrack of The Supremes singing “Where Did Our Love Go,” I exited quietly and made my way along the forest path back into town.
At the BnB, Benji and Bastian were already tucked away, the place hushed except for the sound of the river outside my window.
I flicked open my battered notebook, ready to jot down a few lines about Mulligan’s Mill for the article.
At first, I wasn’t quite sure how to describe this place, until eventually I wrote—
“A town that feels like it could fit inside a snow globe. Neat as a pressed shirt, pretty as a bow tie.”
Then I stalled. I tapped my pen against the page. Somehow, every line that wanted to come out had less to do with the town and more to do with the man who refused to tell me his favorite book.
Instead of working on my article, I found myself making notes to try and figure out what Brooks’s favorite book might be.
Perhaps it was Don Quixote . Brooks had that same heroic stubbornness about him——tilting at windmills only he could see.
Except in his case, the giants weren’t windmills at all, but dog-eared pages and customers who pulled out a book to read the back cover then put it back in the wrong place.
He’d march into battle with nothing but a bow tie for armor and a death stare for a lance, convinced he was saving civilization one orderly shelf at a time.
Maybe it was The Picture of Dorian Gray . Dark, dramatic, secretly yearning for beauty that never fades, like a book that never ages.
Or perhaps it was Middlemarch by George Eliot. The tale of a small town just like Mulligan’s Mill, with every tiny interaction catalogued like specimens in a glass case. I could practically see him nodding along approvingly.
Suddenly I scribbled the notes out.
Idiot , I thought to myself. I was a traveler. I wasn’t built to stay. My whole life fit in a backpack, and I liked it that way. You could vanish at any moment, jump on a plane, skip to the next story. No roots, no ties, no chance to get stuck.
And yet… there was something about the way Brooks fussed with his bow tie, something about how he blushed with annoyance when Bea teased him, something about the way he’d smiled at the bar—really smiled, not his usual grimace-in-disguise—that made me wonder what it would feel like to belong to a place. To a person.
The thought unsettled me so much I shut the notebook hard, like that might stop my brain from replaying every little look, every word he’d said that night.
I lay back on the creaky BnB mattress, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow I’d write about the town.
Tomorrow I’d explore the woods beyond Mulligan’s Mill, see what else I could uncover for the article.
Tomorrow I’d remember who I was—the guy who never stayed anywhere too long.
But tonight? Tonight I couldn’t stop thinking about a bookstore with a steeple… and a pair of nervous hands straightening a bow tie… and a face I didn’t want to forget.
The dining room at the BnB looked like a magazine spread styled by three different art directors who could never agree on anything… yet somehow it still turned out perfect.
The walls were covered in vintage floral wallpaper curled at the edges in places, but instead of looking shabby, it just made the place feel lived in.
The mismatched chairs—some spindle-backed, some upholstered with faded stripes, and one that looked like it had been borrowed from a church hall—surrounded a long mahogany table polished to a gentle glow.
Lace doilies sat under vases filled with fresh-cut blooms from the garden, while sunlight streamed through sheer curtains illuminating every sherry glass and mismatched teacup inside an antique curio cabinet against the wall.
I jotted a note in my pad: The dining room is filled with vintage details paired so carefully they feel timeless—every detail chosen with care, every flower and chair in perfect harmony. I’m not sure whether I’m in a centuries-old home or a trendsetting studio. Either way, it’s flawless.
Benji appeared with a coffeepot in one hand and a jug of orange juice in the other, his apron already dotted with flour.
Bastian followed with a tray of warm pastries that wafted butter and cinnamon my way.
They moved around each other effortlessly, almost like they were dancing as they passed plates and napkins between them.
“Morning, Cody,” Bastian said with a smile. “Sleep well?”
“Like a log,” I lied, because I’d actually lain awake thinking about a certain bow-tied bookseller. “This place is amazing. Seriously, I know an editor who would love to feature you in her annual Boutique Hotels edition.”
Their faces lit up simultaneously.
“Really?” Bastian said. “That kind of PR is something money can’t buy.”
I smiled, their excitement instantly infectious. “Let me send her some pics and notes and we’ll see what she comes back with. But I already know it’ll be a yes.”
“If you’re taking photos, make sure you get my good side,” Benji said nervously as he topped up my coffee.
“Ignore him,” Bastian added, sliding the pastries in front of me. “Trust me, he only has good sides. You’ve sent him into a spiral of nerves is all.”
The pair of them smiled lovingly at one another, then stole a kiss.
I grinned, scribbling a line: “Even the innkeepers come as a matching set—the kind of couple that makes you wonder if they secretly rehearse how to be adorable in the mornings.”
They sat down with me after the last guests trickled out, Bastian unfolding a paper map with the care of a cartographer.
“You said you wanted to explore a little beyond town?” he asked.
It was something I’d mentioned when I first walked into the dining room that morning, confirmed by the sneakers on my feet and the small knapsack in my hand, packed and ready for a day of hiking.
“Yeah,” I said, pulling off a flaky piece of croissant. “Mulligan’s Mill is so charming, now I wanna see what’s beyond the town limits, stretch my legs a little. I wanna see what’s hiding off the beaten track.”
Benji leaned in, tapping the map with a fingertip. “Here’s the old mill. That’s how the town got its name. It’s been closed for decades, but the ruins are still standing. Kinda atmospheric, especially if you like that spooky-photograph vibe.”
“And if you keep following the river downstream,” Bastian added. “You’ll hit Rainbow Falls. Gorgeous in the afternoon light. You’ll hear it before you see it.”
“There are plenty of hiking trails too,” Benji said, tracing a line into the woods. “Some easy, and some that’ll make you wish you’d stayed in bed.”
“Word of advice, though,” Bastian cut in, voice light but eyes serious. “Keep an eye out for bears.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Bears? As in… the sexy kind who make great carrot cake? Or the scary kind that wanna rip your face off?”
“The scary kind, unfortunately,” Benji confirmed. “Black bears. Mostly they’ll avoid you. Just don’t surprise one or leave food out. They don’t come into town much, but out in the woods? You’ll wanna have your wits about you.”
I folded the map carefully, tucking it into my notebook. “Thanks. I think I’ll check out the mill first. Save the bear expedition for later.”
“Don’t let the bear thing scare you,” Benji said. “It’s our duty of care to warn you, but aren’t you Australians used to things that can kill you?”
“Snakes, yes. Sharks, yes. Crocodiles, yes. Spiders, yes. Jellyfish, yes. But bears? No. Especially not koala bears. They’re way too busy sleeping all day.”
Benji gave Bastian a panicked look before staring back at me. “Wait, you have jellyfish that can kill you?”
“Within seconds,” I said seriously. “One sting from an Irukandji jellyfish is fatal. The pain is so excruciating that people who get stung usually beg doctors to let them die. The kicker is, the little buggers are no bigger than your fingernail. You can’t even see them in the water.
Most people don’t even know what stung them till it’s too late. ”
Bastian’s face drained of color. “That’s… horrifying.”
Benji shuddered. “And people still swim in the ocean over there? Or even leave the house?”
“Of course,” I said, buttering another croissant. “You just learn to live with it. Besides, what’s life without a little mortal terror every time you step outside and go for a dip?”
They both stared at me, wide-eyed, frozen mid-sip of their coffee.
I grinned and gave them a wink. “Don’t worry, boys. If I see any Irukandji jellyfish out by your mill, I’ll be sure to give you a heads-up.”
The path from town narrowed the farther I walked, tapering into a dirt track that wound through maples and oaks. Their leaves whispered above me, restless in the breeze, while the occasional squirrel darted across the undergrowth, obviously conducting some urgent squirrel business.
I could still hear the town if I tried—the echo of a car door closing, someone’s dog barking—but it was fading fast. Out here the sound that took over was the river, low and constant, gurgling its way across rocks polished by a hundred years of current.
By the time I reached the old footbridge, the mill came into view. It stood on the far bank, hunched and still like a wooden monster from a fairy tale, its shoulders sloped and its timbers sagging.
The waterwheel was cloaked in moss and ivy, as if nature had gently urged the hard-working beast of burden into retirement.