One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance(15)

Some articles hinted that the change in career paths had to do with his daughter, but he was famously tight lipped about his little girl. For the most part, reporters seemed to respect his protectiveness for her and focused more on his stats and the fact he was ridiculously wealthy than on his family situation.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder.

He didn’t wear a ring, and so far no one had mentioned a wife. Was he a widower with some super-tragic sob story? Maybe that was why he had a stick up his ass. Though Penny seemed pretty content, at least outwardly, for not having her mom around.

After a few minutes, I heard the sound of tires receding down the long driveway. I slowly stood and peeked out the window again.

Wyatt was gone.

It was for the best. I didn’t have time to fantasize about former NFL players who shot me heated looks one minute only to scowl at me the next. If anything, men like Wyatt meant one thing.

Heartache.

It didn’t matter that the way his brow furrowed or eyes turned a deeper shade of caramel when he was annoyed turned me on. I had a date tonight.

A date with Wyatt’s own aunt Tootie, sure, but it was a date nonetheless.

I walked to the small bathroom to check myself out and fluff my hair before flipping off the light and carefully navigating the rickety steps on the outside of the barn. They were steep and a little treacherous, but it was better than having to go inside the barn to get to the apartment. It was dark and creepy, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

I started my car, rolled all the windows down, and cranked the radio to full blast. In my travels, I had discovered that cruising down long stretches of country roads with music up and the wind in my hair was good for my soul.

I was invigorated by the time I rolled into downtown Outtatowner. It was a busy Thursday night. I smiled at a family headed away from the beach. Their cheeks were red from the sun, and the two little boys’ eyelids were already heavy from a day on the water. I checked my text messages again to be sure I had the right address when I pulled up to Bluebird Books, Outtatowner’s local bookstore.

After she handed me the keys to the apartment, Tootie had invited me to her weekly book club. I loved reading, though I doubted my secret love for faerie Why Choose romance was up her alley. It didn’t matter. I had zero plans, and she was too sweet to decline her offer. Tootie assured me it didn’t matter that I hadn’t read the book, and I figured I could suffer through a few hours of polite book talk and maybe meet a friend or two.

Beats a lonely night in the apartment, wondering about the noises coming up from the creepy old barn.

When I walked up to Bluebird Books, a wooden sign read Closed for the Bluebirds. I peered through the window to see a few women milling around, so instead of going in, I knocked. Their heads turned in my direction, and when Tootie saw me, her face lit up. She motioned enthusiastically with her hands and mouthed, Come in, come in. I smiled and pushed through the door.

To my surprise, the Bluebird Club was a hell of a lot more fun than I had imagined. It was in the back of the quaint bookstore, and the women who gathered all had drinks in their hands. In a cozy corner were mismatched chairs, a comfy love seat, and large tufted ottoman seats spread haphazardly. Candles were lit and soft music played in the background. It was like walking into a chic, secret club.

A large side table had an array of drinks—both alcoholic and not—and it seemed everyone had brought some kind of appetizer to share. Everyone but me.

I leaned into Tootie. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t bring anything.”

She smiled and patted my hand. “Nonsense! You’re my guest. Now let’s meet the ladies.”

Tootie shuffled me past each woman, carefully introducing me. It seemed the age range of the women spanned from Tootie’s early sixties to a few in their mid twenties. The age gap didn’t seem to faze anyone as they milled around and laughed with each other.

“And of course,” Tootie said with a smile, “you know Bug.”

“It’s nice to see you again.” I smiled and tried to ignore the wary glance Bug whipped in Tootie’s direction.

She caught it too. “Oh stop, you old sourpuss. She’s one of us now.”

Bug looked down her long, straight nose at me. “Us as in a Sullivan or a King?”

Slowly the chatter around me died down as the book club’s attention was squarely on me and the two women in a strangely possessive standoff beside me.

Tootie’s happy laugh broke through the uncomfortable silence. “You know as well as I do there’s no place for that at book club.” With a wave of her hand, she guided me around Bug’s assessing eyes and toward the small table with drinks.

“Don’t mind her,” she whispered. “There’s a good heart under all that bluster. But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

With her low hum, I felt like I was being let in on some very important town secret—a society of women who, despite the decades-old feud in town, had come together for their love of books.

Only . . . besides the books on the shelves, there were no actual books present at book club.

After only a few minutes, it became apparent that the Bluebird Book Club was a facade for the women of Outtatowner to come together in secret to gossip, solve problems, and maybe even just be themselves.

I immediately fell in love.

The bell on the door jingled, and our attention was brought to a young woman juggling a tray of something that looked like brownies and a canvas bag hanging from the crook of her elbow.