Page 4 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

CODY

There’s a certain kinda magic that comes from walking into a small-town bookshop for the first time. Not the Disney kind of magic with twinkly music and animated chipmunks, but the more subtle kind, like when you pull a shirt out of a suitcase and it still smells like home. This place had that.

It hit me the second I stepped inside—a million neatly-bound pages, a thousand collectible leatherbound editions, and the smell of Mr. Sheen mingling with cedar shelves to keep the wood dust free and sparkling clean…

not that I had any idea what the Yankee version of Mr. Sheen was, but you catch my drift.

This place smelled good . If nostalgia had a cologne, this shop could bottle it and charge fifty bucks a spritz.

And then there was the bloke who stepped out from behind one of the shelves to greet me.

He was standing so straight it made my back feel lazy just looking at him.

I had to admit he was pretty cute, even if he looked a tad formal.

Bow tie, pressed shirt, and every hair gelled into place with precision.

His facial expression seemed tight, slightly anxious, like he was confused by my appearance.

Did we know each other? I was pretty certain the answer was no, and yet he was gawking at me like he’d met me before.

“H-h-hi,” he finally managed.

“G’day,” I said with a smile. I felt like my crumpled shorts, dirty boots, and crazy hair were letting the team down.

Actually, my boots weren’t too bad—they’d seen more airports than some people see in a lifetime—but my shirt had definitely lost its battle with the Queensland sun over the years.

“Nice little place you’ve got here. Smells like…

well, books, obviously. But… something else. Wait, I know. Cinnamon tea.”

“You can smell cinnamon tea?”

“Can I?” I asked, suddenly doubting myself.

“Um, yes. I suppose you can. I had a cup earlier this morning. Although that was upstairs. I live upstairs, in the steeple. You can smell that from down here?”

“Sure can. I happen to love cinnamon tea. And books.” The shelf he was standing beside caught my eye and I pointed. “Is that an entire section dedicated to small-town British mysteries where some lovely old lady tracks down a serial killer who likes to collect fingers as trophies?”

The guy straightened his back even more, like that was even possible. “I wasn’t going the call the section quite that… but yes.”

I was already distracted by a shelf to one side. “Travel books! My favorite. You don’t happen to have any books on Patagonia, do you? It’s so bloody hard to find a good book about Patagonia.”

“Of course I do,” he said, like the question wasn’t even worth asking… which made me kinda chuckle on the inside. Cute.

He made his way over to the shelf with almost robotic efficiency. “Right here, between Paraguay and Peru.” He reached for the book without even looking and handed it to me.

“You categorize your books by title, not author?”

“Only when it comes to reference books. Customers looking for reference material will naturally search by subject, not author.”

I gave a casual shrug. “Makes sense.”

“Perfect sense,” he corrected. “I try to keep things in order.”

That made me grin. “And I try to keep things interesting. Sounds like we’re going to get along just fine. The name’s Cody, by the way. Cody Cameron.”

I reached for his hand, and he shook it. “Brooks. Brooks Beresford.”

“Hence the name above the awning outside. Brooks’s Book Nook . Cute. The name, I mean.”

Instantly his cheeks began to blush. He quickly changed the subject. “I can tell from your accent you’re not from around here.”

“No flies on you, hey mate?” I gave him a good-natured slap on the shoulder with more force than I intended, and he stumbled against the shelf, knocking off several books on Liechtenstein, Lithuania, and Luxembourg. “Shit, sorry.”

He gave me an annoyed glare and went to pick up the books, but I beat him to it, kneeling quickly and scooping the fallen travel books into my arm. I checked each one to make sure no damage had been done, then placed them carefully back on the shelf.

“L-I-E comes before L-I-T,” he said, still annoyed, switching the Liechtenstein and Lithuania books into the correct position.

“Sorry. I can spell.”

“Really?” He sounded like he didn’t believe me.

In my many travels I noticed that Aussies copped that attitude a lot.

Maybe it was the laid-back attitude, maybe it was all the Aussie slang, but I’d been asked on more than one occasion whether we actually had schools in Australia. It never failed to amuse me.

“Yes, really,” I replied with a smirk. “I’m actually a writer.”

His shoulders twitched. “You are? Seriously?”

I laughed out loud that time. “Yes. Seriously. I can actually spell words and write them too. Who’d have thunk it, huh?”

“What do you write, then?” He asked the question like he needed me to prove something to him.

I hated having to prove myself, so I shrugged teasingly. “Oh, you know. This and that.”

“Cookbooks?” he asked. His tone was getting more and more condescending by the minute. It was kinda sexy.

“Do I look like I cook? I mean, I can cook the basics, but ask me to whip up a pav and you’ll get a flat sticky mess that even the bin chickens would turn their beaks up at.”

He screwed up his face. “Was that a joke? Was that even English? Oh wait, you’re a comedy writer. You probably write terrible jokes for some sad pathetic television sitcom, correct?”

“Ha! I wish. Those writers get paid a living wage. They can actually afford Tim Tams whenever they like. Me? I’ve been rationing the one pack since I left Vietnam three months ago.”

I could see the penny drop on his face. He looked from the travel shelf… to the book on Patagonia still in my hand… to my trusty compass hanging around my neck.

“Ah, so you’re a travel writer.”

“Bingo, dingo! I work freelance. I visit somewhere off the beaten track, write about it, sell the story to one of a handful of travel magazines I know, then move on to the next place. Occasionally I head back home to Queensland for a break. I live in a place called Magnetic Island on the Great Barrier Reef. But for the most part I’m on a plane or hiking a trail or sleeping in the waiting room of a consulate building while my visa gets processed…

usually very, very slowly. Bureaucratic red tape is a universal phenomenon, you know. ”

I could tell what he was thinking. Travel writer.

Glossy magazine bylines. Always name-dropping some exotic locale or reminiscing about his adventures.

Not a real writer like the ones who win prizes and get invited to residencies in crumbling European villas.

Which was fine. I let people underestimate me —it makes life more interesting when they realize you’ve been holding an ace the whole time.

“So, Mulligan’s Mill qualifies as ‘off the beaten track?’” he asked.

“Actually, I’d consider this place ‘one wrong turn down the dirt trail that veers off the beaten track.’”

He gasped audibly, his face frozen with offence.

I laughed again. “Mate, I’m pulling your chain.

This place is as cute as a bloody button.

It’s got small-town USA charm written all over it.

I caught the bus from Eau Claire this morning, and the second it pulled into town, I knew this place was worth finding.

I’ve already checked into the BnB down the road.

Have you seen that place? That’s a double-page pictorial spread right there, especially when the owners are that photogenic. What are their names again?”

“Benji and Bastian.”

“See, that’s what I love about small towns. Everybody knows everyone. Better write that down.” I pulled my notepad and pen out of my shorts pocket and jotted down the names of the BnB owners, then added, “And your name was Beresford, right? Brooks Beresford. Does Brooks have an e before the s ?”

“No, it doesn’t. And yes, Beresford is my surname. And are you really going to write a story about Mulligan’s Mill?”

“I write a story about any place that’s worth me hanging up my hat for a few days.”

Of course, Mulligan’s Mill wasn’t on my original route, mainly because I’d set out on this trip without a plan or a map.

I’d been sent here to do a piece for Roam magazine about “America’s Best Kept Secret Towns,” and the best way to find a secret was to stumble upon it.

That meant skipping from one place to the next—on a coach or a train or thumbing a ride with a friendly truck driver—till I found a town worth writing about.

And so far, Mulligan’s Mill fit the bill. Perfectly.

Brooks eyed the Patagonia book still in my hand. “Well… are you going to buy that, or just keep loitering in my travel section?”

I grinned, pulling a crumpled twenty from my wallet. “Mate, I wouldn’t dream of depriving your beautiful little bookstore of my hard-earned travel funds.”

He took the note like it might be contagious, smoothed it flat on the counter, and rang up the sale. With almost forensic care he slid the book into a paper bag. I’m surprised he didn’t put on gloves.

“There,” he said, handing it over. “Your first purchase in Mulligan’s Mill. Maybe it’ll inspire you to actually visit Patagonia one day.”

“Actually, I leave next month. Have you been?”

He straightened his bow tie. I knew an insecure twitch when I saw one.

“No. Truth be told, I’ve never left Wisconsin.

No, I tell a lie. When I was eleven years old my Aunt Delia took me to Minnesota.

Unfortunately, two miles over the border we hit a patch of ice, crashed into a ditch and had to get the car towed all the way back home. ”

I raised my eyebrows. “You mean, you’ve never traveled anywhere? Except two miles into Minnesota.”

His condescending tone returned. “Mr. Cameron. I assure you, I travel far and wide, every day.” With that he gestured to the thousands of books that surrounded us.

I smiled. There was no arguing with that.

By the time I wandered back to the BnB, the scent of fresh coffee had found its way into the hallway.

Benji was behind the reception desk, tapping at the keyboard with one hand and holding an oatmeal cookie in the other.

Bastian leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the screen and brushing cookie crumbs off Benji’s shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They both looked up when I came in. Even their smiles were the same.

“Morning!” Benji said. “How was your walk?”

“I found the bookstore.”

Benji’s face lit up. “Oh, you met Brooks.”

“That’s one way to put it. I think I might’ve startled him. Either that or he’s just naturally wound tighter than the lid on a Vegemite jar that refuses to budge.”

Bastian chuckled, breaking off a piece of Benji’s cookie and popping it into his mouth. “He’s like that with everyone. Give him a week and he might upgrade you from ‘mild suspicion’ to ‘reluctant tolerance.’”

Benji tilted his head. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing outrageous. Just asked about travel books, gave him a friendly slap that nearly knocked him off his feet and sent a few books flying. Oh, and I might have inadvertently questioned his method of categorizing his sections too.”

“Ooooooh,” said Benji and Bastian together, their faces scrunching up into a grimace.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too… after I did it.

Hopefully he’ll let me set foot inside the store again sometime.

I’ve got a thing for bookstores.” I wanted to add I might have had a thing for that particular bookstore owner too, but I’d only been in Mulligan’s Mill a few hours.

No need to rock the boat any more than I already had, at least not yet.

“Well, make sure you take a stroll and check out the rest of the town when you get a chance,” Benji said. “The pastries at Pascal’s Patisserie are to die for… although if my parents happen to serve you, just pretend you don’t speak English, that should avoid any lengthy unnecessary conversations.”

“Then be sure to visit Bud’s Blooms next door to Pascal’s,” Bastian suggested. “Although if Maggie serves you, try not to take offense to anything she says. She’s got the filter of a busted coffee machine.”

“And make sure you stop by for a drink at Aunt Bea’s Barnyard Bar ,” said Benji. “Aunt Bea is our local one-person pride parade, complete with sequins and stilettoes.”

“This town has a drag queen?” I beamed, instantly impressed.

Benji nodded. “Uh-huh. She can pour a whiskey sour with one hand and give Maggie a full makeover with the other. And that’s no mean feat, considering Aunt Bea herself once described Maggie’s hair as a possum having a seizure.”

I gave a happy sigh. “I knew I was going to like this place.”

“Welcome to Mulligan’s Mill,” said Bastian, spreading his hands like the whole town was his to present. “We collect quirky characters the way some people collect stamps.”

I went upstairs to my room to chill for a bit, taking with me a set of fresh towels and a little basket of handmade chocolates they’d given me.

I couldn’t help but think how cute Benji and Bastian were together.

They had that thing couples get when they’ve been through it all and come out stronger—the ability to communicate with just a look, the shorthand language they shared, the little touches, the way a sentence starts in one mouth and finishes in the other.

Inside my room, I stood by the window for a minute, looking down at the front garden.

Benji was out there now, snipping blooms from the flowerbeds and dropping them into a wicker basket Bastian held at his side.

Every time Benji leaned in to cut another stem, Bastian shifted the basket just enough to catch it, like they’d rehearsed the move.

They worked in sync, an easy rhythm that made the whole thing look almost choreographed.

It’s not like I envied the routine, the same walls every day.

I loved my freedom—the passport stamps, the airports, the “where to next” thrill.

But every now and then, I would catch myself staring at people like them and wondering what it would be like to have a person who knew all my shorthand too.

I shook it off. No point getting sentimental before I’d even written my first note for the article.

Still, when I headed back downstairs, I found myself lingering a little in the doorway, watching them arrange the flowers into vases and laugh over something only they understood. It looked… nice.