Page 15 of Love Expert

“No selling.” I bolster my bravery and dial up my smile. “I’m a love expert, actually. For work,” I clarify, meeting three separate sets of confused eyes. “Back in my old town, I directed a successful company based on…” I shrug. “Love.”

“So…” Fox hums. “Escort service?”

“No!”

Alana guffaws.

“I help people… find love. I host events for singles, and work one-on-one with those who need someone to walk them through the process of dating someone else.”

“There’s a market for everything, huh?” Eliza pops her butt onto the counter and warms the side of my face with her stare. “You’re a pimp?”

“No! For the group events?—”

“Orgies?”

“Good lord. No!” I smack a fighter’s arm—it’s so muscular!—then I meet Alana’s eyes and plead. “Do you wanna hear about it, or do you wanna try to guess… badly?”

“I mean…” She giggles. “Guessing is fun.”

“I host group events for singles. For dating,” I insist, before Eliza can interrupt. “Not for sex. In those instances, I literally plan an event, find a location, organize music, food, wine, and games. Whatever we need. I market the event, gather names—male and female—and then on the night, I hope true love might bloom somewhere in the room. Those events are fun, they’re social and silly, and, even when the night is catering to a certain age group, like thirty-five to forty-five or whatever, everyone is giggling and blushing like they’re in high school again.” I lean against the counter and release a happy sigh. “I’m the product of the greatest love story in existence. My mom and dad’s love survives, even in death. So, I was planning to come in here and talk to Mrs. Middler about hosting an event in town soon. I’d use your space, we’d market the event, your store would benefit from the added bodies in the door, andhopefullysome folks will find love.”

“You want to host a speed dating thing… here? Inside my store?”

“Yes! Exactly. Bookstores are inherently romantic, don’t you think? It would take place in the evening, so your daytime business isn’t likely to be affected. It would be dark out, which lends perfectly to a candlelit affair. We could even consider a theme, encouraging guests to come dressed as their favorite romance hero or heroine. Could you imagine how many Mr. Darcys would come?”

“Ew. No,” Eliza grunts. “Darcy is a dirty word in Plainview these days.”

“Oh… uh… okay. Heathcliff? Noah Calhoun. John Thornton. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Someone might come wearing a kilt!”

“That’s the kinda shit Ollie would pull.” Eliza pokes a finger into her mouth. “Rose is all up in those books right now, and Ollie’s such a sucker for whatever makes her happy.” She casts a furious look my way. “He better wear underwear under his kilt, Magnolia!”

“Wait,” Fox murmurs. “You mentioned one-on-one stuff, too. What does that mean?”

“Well… I typically work with men who’ve been out of the dating scene for a significant amount of time. Maybe they’re emerging from the other side of divorce, or death, or whatever. I’ll sit with these men and help them devise a plan going forward. If they’ve secured a date, but are nervous as hell and need talking points or something, then we’ll work on those. If he’s scared he’ll mess up at the dinner table, we’ll set a table and practice. After adate, we’ll debrief and discuss what went right and what went wrong. It’s a coaching service, I suppose.”

“And people pay for that?” Eliza whispers. “I don’t mean any offense, but?—”

“People pay for it,” I assure her. “They pay well. They beg for my help, and then when they screw up, because they always do,” I snicker, “we book another session, and we keep going until those debriefing sessions become more about right than wrong. Love is an extremely lucrative industry.” I meet Alana’s eyes. “And as the location owner, you take a cut of whatever the event raises.”

ROUND SEVEN

MAGGIE

“Hi, Maggie. What are you doing?”

I glance up from my place in the dirt, my hands and knees covered in muck and wrinkles forming on my forehead under the hot September sun. Still, I follow the long line of dirty blue jeans, holes in both knees, then up to a striped blue and white shirt. A basketball clasped between two hands. Shoulders that will be broad someday, but they’re not quite there yet. Then I pass a line of blood smudged beneath his mouth and stop on a pair of bright green eyes.

Don’t be mean, Maggie. Don’t assume the worst!

The Billy Caster I knew would never beat his child.

“Um… hello.” I peek along the boundary line separating our yards and make doubly sure none of my mess has encroached on Billy’s perfect lawn. I’m determined to give that mannoreason to come over here and bark at me. Satisfied, I settle back on my haunches and smile up at the cutie. “What happened to your mouth? Did you know you’re bleeding?”

“Oh, yeah!” He drops his basketball right onto my patch of weedless dirt, digs a hand into his pocket, and yanks it back out again to show off a tooth. “Look what happened today!”

“Your tooth fell out? All on its own?”

“Well… sorta.” Warmth floods his cheeks. “It was mostly ready to come out, but it still had a tiny bit of gum holding it in. It was hurting, cos every time I ate food, the spiky bit would poke. So me and my dad…” He leans closer, conspiratorially grinning. “We tied a string around it, then we tied a string around a bullet.”