Page 8 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

brOOKS

The sound of the front door opening made me flinch.

I’d just spent the last two hours alphabetizing a new poetry section near the counter—even poets need love, probably more so than anyone else—organizing the shelves by author then subdividing by theme.

The Sylvia Plath subsection alone took me half an hour.

Trying to find her unique voice in a single heading proved difficult until I finally settled for “Sylvia Plath: the Oven Years.”

For a fleeting, precious moment, order had reigned. It was perfect. I smoothed down my bow tie and prepared myself for the usual afternoon crowd:

Mrs. Roper trying to return another a book because she didn’t like the villain, even though I’d explained to her time and time again you’re not supposed to;

Or maybe Old Walt from the hardware store who only ever asked for medical thrillers, then described in far too much detail his latest colonoscopy results from Doc Morgan;

Or maybe Milton the nerdy teenager who liked to loiter in the fantasy aisle and whisper loudly about dragons. I had a soft spot for that kid.

Instead, I got… him .

Compass boy. The Australian. The human hazard sign who’d managed to weaponize a friendly pat on the shoulder and catapult me into my own travel shelf.

And now he was carrying flowers?

Not discreet, sensible flowers either—oh no. An explosion of sunflowers, so bright and yellow they looked like someone just popped the sun.

He pushed open the front door, saw me standing in front of my new poetry section, and walked right up with that insufferably easy smile. “G’day. I brought you something.”

I froze. “Why?”

“To apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean to body-slam you into Bolivia.”

“I do believe it was Lithuania,” I corrected automatically.

“Yeah, but there’s no rhyme or alliteration in that. Doesn’t quite land.”

Did he just sound like a real writer? I cracked my neck. “Well, thank you for the gesture… albeit completely unnecessary and a tad gaudy.”

“Gaudy? Bud said you’d like sunflowers.”

“That’s because Bud is a sunflower.”

“Still,” he said cheerfully, shoving the flowers closer. “Flowers never hurt.”

“They do, actually,” I muttered, staring at the oversized stems. “Pollen. Allergies. Spores.”

He laughed like I was being charming. I wasn’t.

Before I could stop him, he spotted the small glass vase I kept for my collection of antique quills—tall, delicate, slender, completely unsuited to horticultural abuse.

He scooped it up, emptied the quills onto the counter nearby, then jammed the sunflowers inside, sat it on the counter, and stepped back like Michelangelo unveiling David.

“There,” he said proudly. “Brightens the place up.”

I stared at the tragic arrangement—sunflowers drooping like drunkards, petals already scattering across my counter, the vase straining under the weight like it might topple over any second.

“It looks,” I said slowly. “Like a crime scene. A floral crime scene.”

He grinned wider. “That’s a grim take on things. I like it. Full of imagination. Seriously, though, I am sorry. Didn’t mean to knock you over. You okay?”

Of course I was okay. My shoulder didn’t ache, my books survived, and yet I hadn’t stopped thinking about the incident all day. Which was absurd.

“I’m fine,” I said, too quickly. “Thank you. You can go now.”

He propped an elbow on the counter, so close to the vase I thought he was going to knock it over. “Not until you forgive me,” he insisted with that big charming Aussie grin of his.

“That’s not how forgiveness works.”

“It is where I’m from.” He tapped the compass on his chest like that proved something. “In Australia we don’t leave until the flowers have done their job.”

I folded my arms, glaring at him beside the bobbing sunflower heads. “Then I suppose we’re… stuck.”

And that was precisely when Aunt Bea swanned in.

She’d had a costume change since this morning.

Gone was the turquoise kaftan. In its place was a floor-length muumuu of shimmering gold, patterned with peacocks so vibrant they practically strutted off the fabric.

Around her neck hung a string of beads so heavy it could double as a weapon, and her hair was now piled even higher—red and white curls this time teased into a bouffant that looked inspired by Clarry’s Raspberry and Vanilla Swirly-Whirly Ice Cream Pillar… without the sprinkles.

“Brooks, darling!” she boomed, arms outstretched like she’d just been lowered in on a Broadway harness. ““I knew I’d find that bronzed newcomer of yours in here eventually. You didn’t think you could keep him hidden from me, did you?”

I gave her a suspicious look. “Bea, have you been staking out the Book Nook all day?”

“From that shady spot across the street? With a tall glass of lemonade and a splash of somethin-somethin? Why yes, of course. How else was I going to meet this sun-drenched Adonis?”

She was already circling him like a glitter-covered shark, bangles clinking, perfume radiating in a ten-foot radius. “Look at this jawline! Look at these shoulders! And that accent—oh my stars, say something. Anything.”

She grabbed the nearest book off the shelf, cracked it open, and shoved it under his nose. “Read to me, sunshine!”

He blinked at the page. “Uh… A Practical Guide to Septic Tank Maintenance. ”

Bea fanned herself with both hands. “Mercy! My ovaries just bleated.”

“Bleated? Seriously? Not to mention, you don’t have ovaries,” I said, seriously considering whether it was too late to fake my own death.

The Australian cleared his throat, clearly fighting off a laugh. “G’day. I’m Cody.”

Bea’s eyes glittered like disco balls. She spread her arms wide, bangles clashing like cymbals. “And I,” she declared. “Am Aunt Bea. The jewel of Mulligan’s Mill, patron saint of those who like to sin, and living proof that not all angels stayed in heaven.”

She struck a pose like she was waiting for the orchestra to catch up, then lowered her voice to a purr. “When people speak of me—and they do, constantly—they say I am a once-in-a-lifetime event. Like Halley’s Comet, but easier to spot.”

Cody grinned, utterly charmed. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Of course you are,” Bea replied, tossing her curls. “Everyone is.”

I groaned—loudly—before Bea pressed a finger firmly to my lips. “Quiet, cherub, the adults are talking.” She turned back to him, patting his arm like she was checking it for ripeness. “Now tell me, do you wrestle crocodiles, or just hearts?”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

I, on the other hand, was contemplating what size coffin would best fit both me and the books I’d already planned to be buried with.

Bea finally released Cody’s arm, though not before giving it a squeeze like she was appraising a melon at the market. “Mmmm, solid. You’ll do nicely.” Then, as if the entire conversation had been a springboard for a new performance, her gaze slid past him and landed on the nearest shelf.

“Well, what do we have here?” She drifted over, gown sweeping the air.

“Poems! And you’ve even got a section just for Sylvia Plath…

‘ The Oven Years?’ ” She clucked her tongue, scandalized.

“Brooks, darling, unless you’ve discovered a long-lost cookbook of Plath’s favorite recipes, that’s dark… even for you.”

She turned back to Cody with a flourish, earrings flashing.

“Don’t let the bow ties and book dust fool you, my cuddly koala.

Our Brooks has a streak of shadows running right through him.

Brooding, tragic, dramatic—he’s like our very own Wuthering Heights , both the Emily Bronte and Kate Bush versions. ”

Cody raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is he now?”

“Of course he is,” Bea declared, fanning herself as though the revelation was too much for her own heart. “He hides it well, but give him half a glass of pinot noir and he’ll quote something gloomy that makes you want to swoon and slash your wrists at the same time.”

I groaned. “That happened once. And it wasn’t gloomy at all. It was Romeo and Juliet, the greatest love story of all time.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Bea said, one very pointy finger in the air.

“But isn’t that the story of two teenagers whose somewhat hasty and naive love affair ends in the death of no less than six characters, including themselves?

All I’m saying—my little four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie—is that you’re an acquired taste. Which is exactly the way you like it.”

“Is that what you’d call ‘throwing shade?’” Cody asked Bea.

“Oh, my fair dinkum darling, that wasn’t shade. That was dappled light through the canopy. Trust me, you’ll know when I’m throwing shade. You’ll think someone just blotted out the sun.”

Cody was still grinning. “You know, I’ve been in a lot of bookshops, but this is the first one that came with its own floor show.”

“This is not a floor show,” I snapped. “This is a serious establishment for readers.”

“Oh, it’s serious, all right. Sugarplum, this store is as serious as a cathedral and quiet as a tomb. Now all we need is a messiah to come along… preferably in the form of a tall, skin-kissed stranger who needs a compass to point the way.”

“Bea!”

“Whoops, did I say that out loud?” But Bea was already making her hasty exit. “Sorry darlings, must go. I’ve got three more costume changes before the day is through. The things a woman must endure to look effortless. This much glamor doesn’t just assemble itself.”

She strutted toward the door like the whole sidewalk outside was a catwalk runway just waiting for her.

As she flung the door open, she spun on one heel, sequins catching the light like paparazzi bulbs.

“Oh, and before I forget, both of you are coming to Aunt Bea’s Bar tonight, seven sharp.

The drinks are on me, unless of course you lose your charm, in which case you’ll be swallowing your dignity instead of daiquiris. ”

She blew a kiss, stepped through the open door, and was gone in a shimmer of perfume and feathers.