Page 10 of The Fall Classic

She smiles, and her cheeks go rosy. “I do remember you. I try not to interrupt people, though. It didn’t occur to me that you’d want me to. Sorry.”

“I really want you to. Anytime. Maybe all the time.”

Her laugh is like birdsong and her accent as sweet as peaches and cream. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’m not sure your best will be good enough,” I say, scratching the back of my head, and she laughs again. “I can ramble pretty hard.”

She stands like she’s waiting for me to say something else, but unfortunately, I already used up my one-and-only line when I first saw her, so I’m tapped out. But because I really can ramble, I open my mouth and hope for the best.

“So.” I look around. “Do you know when this place closes?”

Her head tips back maybe an inch. “Oh, yes. At ten. Did you want something? Sorry, that was silly. Of course you wanted something. It looks like you ran here after the game.”

“I did.”

A voice clears from across the shop, and I realize there’s someone else here: Alma, the older woman who took order after order for Lucas and me over the last year when my brother was trying to figure out the right drink for his now-girlfriend, Scottie. When I got back into town at the beginning of the season, I asked Alma right away about Georgiana. All she told me was that she’s a regular and always sits in the same booth—the one we’re standing at now.

I assumed Alma was a big fat liar up until tonight.

“Did you run all this way for a vanilla protein cozy?” Alma asks. It’s the only drink I’ve ever ordered.

My cheeks are red hot, but hopefully they’ll think it’s from exertion. “Actually, could you make it iced?”

Alma blinks. “It’s steamed milk. You’re asking me to put ice in it after I steam it? Or should I froth some cold milk?”

Shriveling up and dying wouldn’t be the worst thing right now. “The cold milk will work,” I say. “Georgiana, did you want something?”

“You remember my name?” Georgiana asks.

I could laugh. She honestly has no idea why I’m here.

“I remember,” I say. And as if I need a reason, I add, “It’s Mr. Darcy’s sister’s name.”

“You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”

I chuckle. “I like books.”

“I remember,” she says. “Narnia, right?”

“Anything C.S. Lewis,” I say. “Or Lee Child. Or, I don’t know, Mary Higgins Clark. I don’t need it to have a starred review by some literary journal. If the story is good, I’m happy.”

“Me too!” she says, dropping to the booth. I sit down across from her. “Do you know your top ten books you’d take on a desert island?”

“Can I bring my Kindle?”

“No,” she says. “And no compilations, either.”

I look pointedly at her collection of Frost poems. “Really?”

She grips it to her chest. “Good point. In that case, yes to collected works. But if you say Shakespeare, I’ll know you’re lying.”

“You’ll know nothing of the sort,” I shoot back, although she’s right. “But why do you say that?”

“Because if Shakespeare had been on your list, you would have name-dropped him with C.S. Lewis. People love dropping Shakespeare to establish their literary credentials.”

I laugh. “Wow. I didn’t peg you for being quite so judgmental.”

Her face burns a deep red. “I’m not trying to be judgmental. I’m sorry.”