Regina keeps beating me to the first editions.
Hemingway. Faulkner. Steinbeck. Every time a rare book hits the market, she gets there first. She has a relationship with Charlotte, the bookshop owner. I don’t.
So I sent my husband to fix that.
“Flirt with the owner a little,” I told Sam. “Charm her. Get us on the list.”
I thought I was being clever. Sophisticated. The kind of wife who’s secure enough to use her husband’s appeal as a tactic.
I didn’t expect to watch Charlotte’s hand slide onto his thigh while I hid in the poetry section.
I didn’t expect to lock the front door myself when she asked.
I didn’t expect to end up on my knees.
Charlotte has a way of making you think everything is your idea. That you’re choosing this. That you want to serve her—and you do. God help me, you do.
I went in looking for rare books. I found out something much more valuable was rare: a woman who knows exactly what she wants and exactly how to get you to give it to her.
