Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

15. Miles

Chapter 15

Miles

I greet a shopper with a massive yawn for the third time this morning. Not exactly killing it at the customer service game today.

The woman just laughs. “You look like you could use one of your coffees.”

“I probably should. What can I get for you?”

She orders an Americano and a cinnamon roll, and I get to work. By the time I hand both off to her and she’s paid, I’m yawning again. Maybe I do need a coffee this morning. I was up late last night thinking about the new book and lost track of time. Five a.m. comes awful quickly when I’m running on a few hours of sleep.

“Thanks so much. Do you have a recommendation for a good sci-fi book? My husband’s birthday is coming up, and I want to get him something I know he’ll like.”

“Er…” This is one downside to owning a bookshop and also selling books I wrote. It’s an automatic conflict of interest. Obviously, I want to sell my books…but without feeling like I’ve unduly pushed customers toward them. I can’t recommend my nove ls as though I’m an anonymous, unbiased bookseller passing along a hot tip. That’s just shady.

But I’m also terrible at coming out and admitting I wrote the books. The last thing I want are pity sales because a customer felt pressured. Mostly, I avoid mentioning my books in any capacity. Unless I’m cornered.

Like right now.

Her smile slips the longer I hesitate. “He has a pretty big collection, but any advice would help.”

“Sure.” I lead her over to the science fiction section and point out a few books. A classic her husband might like in a special edition, and a couple of recent releases.

Inexplicably, she picks one of mine off the shelf. “How about this one?”

“I…yeah. That’s good.”

She looks up at me, apparently waiting for a lengthier endorsement.

“It’s, ah…” How am I supposed to rhapsodize about my own book? You’d think after writing it I’d be able to summarize it in a sentence or two, but it’s an impossible task. “It’s pretty well-received. It has a nice character arc across the series. Funny.”

Has anyone ever been swallowed alive by their own awkwardness? Am I the first?

“I’ll go with this one.”

We return to the front counter where Owen’s waiting. I guess I was too busy tripping over my own tongue to hear him come in.

“That’s a great choice,” he says to the woman. “Kept me up at night to see what happened next.”

“Oh. Thank you for that endorsement.” Her gaze flicks to me, as if silently pointing out my terrible one.

Once she’s left, Owen levels me a dubious look. “That’s seriously the best you can do? ”

“I’m not a used car salesman. I can’t just launch into a spiel about how great my book is.”

“Probably should.”

All I can do is return his glare. Yes, I probably should. Marketing is huge for writers, and I’m not skilled at any of it. I don’t have social media, I haven’t done any signing events, and I don’t even have a display of my books in my own store. All of that requires a level of social comfort I don’t have.

“Are you here for your usual?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I could keep lecturing.”

I get to work on his café mocha. He’ll probably also want a cinnamon roll with extra icing. The MMA instructor has a terrible sweet tooth.

“You can’t skimp out on marketing. That was the first thing I took over when I started at Rumble Room.”

He’s taken on a lot of their managerial responsibilities since he arrived. He could probably run his own gym at this point, but I’m not sure he wants that. He says he likes the freedom that comes with not being the owner.

“I realize that. It’s just not my skillset.” I slide the paper cup across the counter to him, wordlessly accepting his cash.

“No kidding.” He looks around the store. “Where’s your book display again?”

Marketing the store is easy. We have social media accounts and a newsletter that feature staff picks, book clubs, and special events. But marketing my books? Marketing me ? I don’t know where to begin.

“I’ll work on it.” Probably. Eventually. If I don’t, whatever momentum my books have now could dry up faster than Vance Vickers’s love for any woman he calls his wife.

“You’ve got to put yourself out there.” His dark eyes narrow on me over his sip of mocha. “In lots of ways. ”

I ignore the hint. He doesn’t take his own advice—I don’t have to, either. “What are you up to today?”

“I’ve got an intro class this afternoon. Always fun to see a new crop of clients walk through the doors. Love seeing people respond to my marketing.”

“Nice dig.”

He chuckles over his drink. “First, I’m heading over to the nursery. I need something to plant in the cracks of the rock wall I installed over the weekend.”

“You finished it?”

“It’s looking pretty good. You should stop by and see it sometime.”

I’m willing to bet it’s looking a lot more than pretty good. Owen might be even more obsessed with plants than he is with fighting moves. His backyard is an oasis of native plants and natural landscaping that feels more like a botanical garden than a spot for a barbecue and a hammock. Even though it’s excellent for both.

He wears one of his rare proud grins. “My baby’s really filling out.”

“You probably shouldn’t refer to it that way.”

The grin slips. “Yeah, I heard it.”

Georgia bounces through the door, smiling so bright it’s like the sun itself walked into my store. “Miles! I’ve got great news!”

She’s got her cherry-printed tote bag over one shoulder. Seeing it plants a seed of satisfaction in my chest. It means she’s got her tablet with her and plans to work in the store until her shift in a few hours. I love it when she’s completely at home here. Love it even more when it means she’s hanging out with me for no reason.

“Hi.” She beams at Owen as she breezes by him and around the counter to me. “I decided who to set you up with for your next date. ”

I share a look with Owen. He seems sympathetic but also a touch annoyed. A common theme.

The smile freezes on her face as she glances between the two of us. “Oh. Did you not want anyone to know about the whole matchmaking thing? I’ve kind of mentioned it already.”

There’s no reason to conceal it, even if it’s not my favorite. I’m not ashamed of the situation. I just don’t know how to transform it into the outcome I want.

“He knows.”

Behind her back, Owen slowly shakes his head at me. He knows, and he’s made his opinions clear.

“Great. Well—I found her!”

I know I need to tell Georgia the truth, that I don’t want to meet any of her set ups because I want her . But she’s so happy right now, I can’t just extinguish that. Even with Owen five feet away, giving me dirty looks.

“Who’s the lucky victim this time?” I ask.

“It’s Josie! From romance book club!”

My stomach folds over on itself like a crumpled receipt at the bottom of a trash can. I look to Owen again, but his gaze has dropped to the floor. Georgia means well, but this…this is bad.

“I realized after you left that I should be looking for your matches closer to home. She’s in Dogeared all the time. We all know she’s beautiful and sweet. She’s a little on the shy side, but that could be a good fit for you. And we already know she likes books more than she likes Vance Vickers movies.”

I knew her matchmaking scheme would be awkward, but I never imagined it could be painful for anyone besides me. The look on Owen’s face…

“I don’t think we’re a good fit.” It’s all I can manage.

“What? Of course you are. She loves science. You love science fiction.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I know, but come on. She’s a whole genius . She’s perfect for you and your awesome brain.”

Behind her, Owen flinches like Georgia landed a cross hook to his face.

“It’s not a good idea. Josie’s…” I have no idea how to finish that sentence. My friend’s dream girl? Not you?

Some of Georgia’s enthusiasm fades. “You really don’t like Josie?”

“I like her. It’s just that she’s not…” This conversation is loaded with dynamite, and every sentence is a match to the fuse. “I don’t think we’re right for each other.”

Georgia turns to our friend. “Owen, you’ve met Josie. Isn’t she great?”

He swallows, apparently at more of a loss for words than usual. “Yeah. She is.”

“Tell Miles he should accept my help as wingwoman and go on a date with our resident scientist super-genius. Don’t you agree we should get their big brains together?”

I guess I’m not the only one who can’t tell Georgia no when she’s grinning away at him. Owen’s mouth drops open, and it takes him a second, but he turns his attention to me. “You should go for it.”

I know how he feels about her. He doesn’t want me to date her. This is tearing him up inside, even if nothing on his stoic face reveals it.

“This is a very bad idea. Josie’s not for me. She should be with someone like?—”

“No,” Owen interrupts. “You should give it a try. Like Georgia said, she’s a great woman. Smart. Well read. Any guy would be lucky to have the chance to be with her.”

“Aww.” Georgia turns back to me. “So can I call her and confirm?”

I look to Owen, pleading for him to…I don’t kn ow what. Declare his undying love for Josie. Distract Georgia with a fake a heart attack. Something. He just nods once. Resolute. Resigned.

“Do it, Georgia,” he says. “Miles needs to get out of his own way for a change.”

“Yes! Exactly. You won’t regret this, Miles.” She darts into the back room, presumably to set up my date.

With my good friend’s crush.

“I won’t do this,” I say to him low enough Georgia won’t hear. The number of secret conversations I’ve had in this store lately is insane. “I can’t go on a date with the woman you’re interested in.”

He winces but shakes it off like he’s in the ring. “It’s not like I’ve ever talked to her. No harm, no foul.”

“It’s a foul to me. You’re my friend. I don’t want to do this to you.”

He shakes his head, throwing off my refusal. “It never would have worked out between us. What would we even have in common?”

“You know how I feel about…” I toss a hand toward the back room.

“I know. But she’s right. Josie’s a genius scientist. She deserves the best.”

The fact that he thinks for a minute that’s not him is hard to witness. “Owen, I can’t?—”

“It’s all set up!” Georgia emerges from the back room, a victorious grin across her face. “You’re going to the Harvest Festival tomorrow. I thought more low-key would be good this time. Keep the pressure off and give you a chance to talk. Arlo can dodge the apples this week, or whatever they give him to do. And I’ll be here. Silently cheering you on.”

She pumps her fists, miming a cheerleader’s chant.

“I’ve got to head out,” Owen says. “Good luck tomorrow.”

His morose look and Georgia’s happy one press in against me on both sides. I’ve written my characters into worse situations than this. I just have to find a way to write myself out.