She taps her tube of mascara against her chin. “We should offer this as a service to people who buy books. Like, have a makeup counter.”
Cassie stares at her friend. “A makeup counter?”
“Sure.” Zoe grins. “It’s not like women are buying books because there are men knocking down their doors. I bet lots of our customers would love to get a little makeover. A makeover and a book.”
Cassie just shakes her head.
Joel shows up at precisely seven o’clock. Cassie almost doesn’t recognize him out of his scrubs, but he looks just as tempting in khaki slacks and a white dress shirt. He’s even wearing a dark blue tie that brings out the color in his eyes. He put on a tie for her. She can’t remember ever going out on a date with a man who wore a tie to the date. She’s relieved she went with the dress this morning.
“Cassie,” Joel says, a grin spreading across his face when he sees her. “Are you ready?”
And then he pulls a rose out from behind his back. An honest-to-God rose. That’s a new one—none of the guys in their mid-twenties would ever show up with a rose. “Oh,” she gasps.
He hands it to her, and again, their fingers brush against each other. And again, she gets that tingle. “I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you like, so…”
“I like roses,” she says. Grandpa Marv used to present fresh flowers to Grandma Bea every single week for the duration of their marriage, and she used to put them in the window of the store. But after Grandpa Marv died, there were never flowers in the store again. “Thank you. And you’re right on time.”
He nods. “I got here a little early, but I figured you were still working so I’ve been… uh, circling the block.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “And now I wish I hadn’t told you that.”
She laughs. “I’ll forget I heard it.”
“Would you?”
Cassie glances at Zoe who is rolling her eyes. “Thanks again for locking up, Zoe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Have fun, you two.” Zoe leans back in her seat and flashes her teeth at them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And I mean that, because if I wouldn’t do it, it’s got to be some really bad shit.”
Cassie has no doubt that’s true.
The sun is just starting to set when they get outside the bookstore. Cassie loves this time in the fall, when the oppressive heat and humidity of the summer has finally let up, but it’s still warm enough to get away with a dress and no jacket in the evening. A gentle breeze lifts the dark strands of hair from her neck. They stroll down the block, and she’s unsure of the destination. They texted a few times, and he mentioned the possibility of Indian food, but now she thinks the heavy, creamy Indian dishes she usually likes would make her feel bloated and unattractive.
“Where are we going?” she asks him.
“Punjab Café is just down the block,” he says.
“Actually,” she says, “what about Giotto’s? That Italian place two blocks uptown?”
His eyes darken, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t really like Italian food.”
“Oh.” Cassie wants to be agreeable, but in her head, a red flag goes up. Who doesn’t like Italian food? American cuisine is so entangled with Italian that he may as well say he doesn’t like food. “What about sushi?”
His shoulders sag in relief. “That sounds good.”
“But we can’t get anything with peanuts,” she says. “I’m allergic.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Itchy rash allergic? Or bells and whistles to the hospital allergic?”