Only in Your Dreams (The Mountains are Calling #2)

8. Finley

Book club night is my favorite night of the month. Despite living in the same small town as my family and every single person I grew up with, my life can be very exclusive and lonely. Having one night a month dedicated to spending time with my friends, with no significant others or kids involved, is life-giving.

The group was larger when we started, with ten or twelve women on average, but it’s slimmed down over the course of two years. Now there are only five of us, but we never miss a month.

I let myself into Alicia Bennington’s small ranch-style home at five on the dot. Finding a time that worked for everyone was trial and error, but we found that a happy hour–style book club is easiest. And also the most fun.

Stevie is the only one already here, and I find her and Alicia sitting at the counter in the kitchen, sipping on margaritas from the pitcher Alicia always makes. A smile lifts my lips when I see them, and just like always, something in my heart settles. I may not be where I imagined I would be at thirty-one, but at least I have a good group of friends who are just as interested in fictional boyfriends as I am.

Alicia sees me first, breaking out in a grin. “Finley!” She’s always like this—a bundle of energy, buzzing and sparking with excitement. She’s the kind of person whose glass is always completely full, not just half. Being with her feels like the first warm day of spring after months of winter.

My smile widens as I drop onto the barstool next to Stevie, feeling instantly lighter than the moment before I walked in the door. Stevie bumps her shoulder with mine. “How’s life?”

She’s always like this—straight to the point, and I love it about her. I spend 75 percent of my interactions with people engaged in small talk, but I’ve never had a conversation with Stevie that didn’t get deep at some point.

Maybe it’s why I feel myself settle and drop my guard enough to answer her honestly. “Strange,” I say and mean it. I haven’t told the girls in book club about the logistics of my relationship with Grey, because, although we’re all close, we mostly save our important conversations for this slice of time we’ve carved out for each other.

Stevie’s brows inch up her forehead. “Because you’re dating Grey Sutton?”

Alicia’s head pops out from behind Stevie’s. “Yes, please give us all the details on that development.”

I’m saved from responding when the front door swings open, a harried Nora in the doorway. “I need a margarita, stat.”

“I second that,” Wren says, appearing behind her.

My eyes narrow meaningfully, and she lets out a sigh so defeated I have to roll my lips to keep from laughing.

“I’m pregnant,” she says to the room with absolutely no fanfare. “Which is exactly why I need a margarita. But I’m never going to be able to drink again, so Alicia, please tell me you have some of your famous raspberry lemonade in the fridge.”

“You’re pregnant ?” Alicia and Nora squeal at the same time, and when I look at Stevie, still seated next to me, unlike Alicia, who is launching herself out of her seat and at Wren, I know she must have already been let in on the news.

“Yes,” Wren sighs. “I already feel a hundred weeks, but I’m not even seven yet, so this pregnancy should last three to five business years.”

“I want a baby,” Alicia says, her eyes wide and round like a doe’s. “I’m calling Felix.”

Alicia started this book club two years ago after reading an article online about these women in Chicago who started a romance book club to set higher standards for themselves and keep each other accountable while dating. There’s no passing up red flags when you’re reading about a man written by a woman with your best girlfriends. She wanted to recreate that here in Fontana Ridge.

And it worked for her. Three months ago, we showed up at her wedding with special editions of her favorite books and a promise that Holden would build a home library for her while she and Felix were on their honeymoon.

Nora laughs, tears in her eyes, and draws Wren into a hug. “I’m so happy for you, friend. You can have all of my hand-me-downs.”

“And we’ll throw you the best baby shower,” Alicia promises.

Wren pulls back, wiping her silver-lined eyes with the backs of her fingers. “I’m too hormonal for this right now. Let’s talk about books.”

The two hours I spend at book club every month make me feel alive in a way not much else does. Flowers were my first love: I have fond memories of hours spent in the garden with Mom, where we spent most of our scarce one-on-one time. I didn’t even like doing it at first, and looking back now, I’m sure she was sad to give up her only child-free activity, but she never acted like it. She was patient with me, showing me how to prune the plants and pick weeds, when and where to plant each flower so it would flourish. It was our time, and I grew to love it more than she ever did. I took it into my own hands when Holden and I got older and Mom had to pick up extra shifts so she could afford all of our extracurricular activities.

Flowers are my safe and happy place. I’ve always known that as long as I take care of them, put the time and the work into them, they’ll bloom for me. I never expected to find anything else that made me feel quite like they do.

Until book club. I didn’t think I was going to enjoy reading. I didn’t when I was in high school, when I was forced to read the classics and write papers on them. When all the kids in my elementary school were excited about the book fair, I was patiently counting down the days until our annual field trip to the botanical gardens or Misty Grove, the orchard and flower farm that Stevie’s parents own and operate. Other than the books I’d check out about flowers and gardening, I was never interested in the idea of sitting down to read.

But when Nora talked me into joining this book club for single women (even though she was happily married and pregnant with her second child), I fell in love for the second time in my life. This time with reading.

There’s something about reading books that are guaranteed to end in a happily ever after. Sure, they’re sometimes over-the-top or unrealistic, but for a romantic like me, they’re hopeful. Everyone always gets what they’re looking for, or at least what they didn’t know they needed. Everyone gets their happy ending. Everyone is enough.

Which is why, when the storefront next to mine became available, I had an idea. A passion project, really. Something else to sink all my lonely free time into. A bookstore. Where I can be surrounded by books that make me happy, that make me hopeful, that make me believe that, one day, I’ll find someone I’m enough for.

The only problem is that I have absolutely no idea how to run a bookstore. Though that doesn’t stop me from sneaking into the empty store and imagining the possibilities.

That’s what I’m doing when I leave book club two hours later, just as the sun is starting to lower toward the horizon, bathing my little mountain town in shades of pinks and oranges and purples. Everything has that hazy, lovely glow that feels like long, carefree summer nights. But all I want to do is lock myself in a dusty, empty shop and daydream about filling it with books.

I glance over my shoulder as I near the store. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong. When I told my landlord that I was thinking about renting the space next door, he gave me a key and told me to take all the time I needed. I don’t think he expected me to disappear in here multiple times a week, but that’s neither here nor there.

No, I’m sneaking around because if anyone in town sees me, they’ll want to know what I’m scoping it out for. And then every Fontana Ridge resident will know that I’m thinking about opening a bookstore, and they’ll organize some kind of fundraiser to make it happen. Then when the shop fails because I have no idea what I’m doing, I’ll have let everyone down.

So it’s easier this way.

When I determine that the coast is clear, I let myself into the building and shut the door behind me. It creaks on its hinges. That should probably be fixed, but I kind of love the idea of working in a bookstore where the front door creaks every time it opens and closes.

The roll-up blinds are covering the windows, so no one can see when I flip on the overhead lights and examine the large, empty space. It’s bigger than my flower shop, but not by much. Meaning that adding shelves and books would make it feel cramped in the best kind of way. Cozy. I can imagine the vibe perfectly, how I would paint it to match Unlikely Places. I’d have quotes from my favorite books hanging in mismatched frames on the walls. There’d be a drink station too. Nothing much, just high-quality drip coffee and a kettle and tea bags, so people would feel comfortable settling on the thrifted couches and armchairs with a good book.

The door creaks behind me, interrupting my thoughts, and I spin around on my heel, a phantom shock zipping up my spine at the sight of Grey standing in the doorway. My surprise dissolves quickly, and I tug him inside by the front of his shirt, glancing behind him to make sure no one noticed before shutting the door swiftly behind him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, turning my full attention on him now that the coast is clear.

He leans back against the door, never able to stand up straight when there’s a surface to prop himself against, and gives me an equally questioning look. “Funny, I came here to ask you the same thing.”

I didn’t end up playing poker at the station last night, because as soon as the cards were dealt, they got an emergency call and had to head out. I was surprised when I felt a little sad about it on the quiet walk back to my apartment. Whatever desire I had to spend time with him yesterday evening has dissolved today, though, because he should not be here .

I cross my arms, my expression flattening. “You’re not my keeper.”

His mouth tips in a slow smile, the one that makes everyone melt for him. “No, just your boyfriend.”

My eyes roll so hard I see stars. “It’s none of your business.”

He glances around the empty space, blue eyes assessing in that natural way of his. He’s always so mussed, so casual, but he misses nothing. It’s contradictory. And annoying.

“Meeting someone here for a clandestine hook-up?” he asks, his gaze falling back on me. It makes my insides feel mushy in a way I don’t feel like contemplating. “You should have let me know. I could have helped out.”

I let out a deeply aggrieved sigh. “You make me tired.”

His grin hitches higher, his dimple popping. “Most women tell me that, though usually under different circumstances.”

“If you must know,” I say, ignoring his comment and deciding to air my secrets if it means changing the subject, “I’m thinking about renting this place.” I can feel my shoulders against my ears as I try to sink into myself and cover the blush starting to rise to my cheeks as I wait for his response.

I can only describe his expression as pure delight. It’s slow, the way it changes. Morphing from a teasing half grin into something more spectacular. Lips curling at the edges until his smile is full to bursting. White teeth making an appearance. Lines crinkling beside his eyes and mouth. Everything about his face softens until he looks less like the town playboy and more like a man waking up from a particularly happy dream, only to find that it’s real.

“Finley Blankenship, as I live and breathe,” he says, pure wonder. “You’re expanding Unlikely Places?”

My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I almost swear his gaze dips to track the movement before returning to my eyes. I give him a small shake of my head. “No, I’m thinking of opening a bookstore.”

I don’t know why, but my heart stutters as I wait for his reaction. We may tease each other mercilessly, but he’s been around for the majority of my life and knows me better than most anyone else. I trust his opinion, maybe more than I should. And if he tells me I’m in over my head, I think I’ll believe him.

But he doesn’t. Somehow that smile stretches impossibly. His eyes move past mine, flitting around the shop, as if imagining what it would look like with shelves and messy stacks of books. I wonder if he sees it the way I do, if he can sense the possibilities.

When his gaze lands back on mine, it’s settled. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what?” I ask, taking a step back, moving deeper into the empty shop. He’s too magnetic. I always thought we were repelling sides, but lately I feel like his opposing pole, drawn inexplicably closer without my permission.

“Let’s open this bookstore. What do we need to do?” He looks around the space once more, mentally cataloging. “Buy some bookshelves? No, what am I saying? Holden can build them. And books, of course. How do you buy books? Will you take used ones? And—”

I cut him off, holding up my hand. “Whoa, you’re getting ahead of me. I haven’t even decided if I’m going to do it yet.”

But my insides feel warm, gooey. The middle of a perfect brownie. I’ve been so unsure I could do this, sneaking in when the town is quiet so I could stand in here in peace and make pro and con lists. I just mentioned it to Grey, and he’s acting as if it’s a done deal, as if there’s not a doubt in his mind that I could make this happen.

His brow wrinkles. “Why wouldn’t you do it? You’d be amazing at it.”

“What could possibly make you think that?” I ask on a laugh that echoes in the cavernous space.

Confusion colors his features, thick brows pulling together. A divot forms between them, as if my question is so off the wall that he doesn’t understand it. “Because I have no doubt you could do anything you put your mind to, Fin.”

His words suck all the air from my lungs, making my mouth dry. Like the moment the dentist puts the suction into your mouth and sucks out all the moisture. I can feel my heart in my chest, beating loudly enough I think it will echo like our voices.

His confidence in me is intoxicating. It’s most likely misplaced, but that doesn’t stop the warmth from spreading through me, smoothing over my insecurities like a heavy blanket.

I swallow, needing to drop his earnest gaze and look anywhere else. I don’t know what I’m feeling now, but it’s foreign. Pleasant. Scary. Heady.

“I don’t know about all that.”

When I look at him again, that grin is back, the one that never fails to get him the number of any random woman in whatever bar we end up in. “That’s okay. I have enough confidence for the both of us.”

A laugh snorts out of me, popping the tension like a bubble. This feels normal, easy. “That’s the truth.”

He gestures with his head toward the street outside, spring sky eyes sparking. “C’mon, let’s get dinner, and you can tell me all about it.”