Page 41 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

There are candy apples and cinnamon donuts lined up on one side of the tent and hot dogs and popcorn on the other. In the middle, the group of Liberty Ladies are dressed in matching black T-shirts adorned with a glittering Hope Harbor mascot.

My lips twitch into a smile as I spot my mother laughing at something Babs says. She’s wearing a yellow apron to hold money and her mostly gray hair is pulled back into a ponytail that makes her look younger than her fifty-five years. Or maybe it’s because of the way she’s smiling.

The moment she spots me, my mom’s face lights up even further. Though I miss my daddy terribly, it’s nice to see her finding a place for herself in Hope Harbor without him. Finding a new way on her own, rather than just as one half of The Darlings.

I was incredibly lucky to be born into our family, to witness a love like theirs. Everything I know about love, about devotion, I learned from my parents.

My father only became his full self when he saw my mother across the room. Her cheeks, just like mine, can’t hide her emotions. When she’s mad, boy do you know it. But whenever my father looked at her, the apples of her cheeks would glitter with delight—you could see her warming from the inside out.

I want that sort of love.

I’ve learned that I’d rather be on my own than settle for a love that was less than what my parents had. I’d rather read about those epic love stories than be with someone who made me feel the way Dick did.

The worst thing—something I’ve never admitted aloud—was that not only did my relationship with Dick not measure up to that real kind of love, but he made me feel smaller than I ever felt by myself. When I was with him, I shrunk rather than shined.

He’d make snide comments about what I enjoyed the most. Books were frivolous, he said, especially the ones I read. He made comments about my weight and all but asked me to go on a diet for the wedding, though of course he claimed it was so we would both be the healthiest versions of ourselves.

I didn’t realize it at the time but I was deeply unhappy toward the end of our relationship. I just didn’t know how to get out of it. I suppose a part of me believed him, too—I did enjoy my books more than the real world. I was addicted to the rush I felt when the banter between the two main characters was off-the-charts, when there was conveniently only one bed in the hotel room they booked, when the enemies finally became lovers.

And witnessing the first kiss? God, that moment is addictive. The tension building up to it? Orgasmic. It’s not the spice that draws me into romance books; it’s that feeling of chemistry snapping between the two main characters that I chase. Of course, the sex scenes are a necessary part of any romance book—and I enjoy the hell out of a well-placed good girl—but it’s the heart-pounding, showstopping, epic love story that I’m looking for.

When I was with Dick, I thought maybe he was right about some things. Maybe if I changed—if I lost the belly, didn’t use as many throw pillows, and stopped reading as much—we’d have that kind of love.

I hate thinking how much I bent for Dick, though a year on, I am thankful for that version of love, because it taught me the greatest lesson of all—if I don’t love myself enough, then I’ll never be treated the way I deserve.

So, I’m taking the time to fall in love with myself, rather than looking for someone to fall in love with. And at least Monty’s plan will allow me to do that without everyone questioning me every five minutes.

“Hi, Penny,” Babs calls to me now, spotting me just after my mother does. “Look how cute she looks, ladies. It’s almost as if she’s got a date today!”

“Oh, leave her be,” my mother says, moving out from behind the table and wrapping me in one of her incredible hugs. The perfume she’s always worn—something by Rosie—never fails to comfort me. She pulls me tight to her, mumbling in my ear so that no one else can hear. “You’ll have to tell me what’s really going on when we don’t have an audience.”

I glance at her, a doe in headlights, knowing I can’t hide the truth from my mom. Not that I want to. But I do want her to believe I’m okay. I want her to focus on her and not worry about me so much.

“And where is that new boyfriend of yours?” Rayna breaks the moment between us, her discerning brow raised.

“Monty is meeting me here. He had to help his father with something.”

“I always knew you two would end up together,” Babs says.

“It was clear as day she had a crush on him,” Rayna agrees. “I remember you following that boy around in high school with hearts in your eyes.”

My cheeks burn. Was it really that obvious?

“Funny, I don’t remember that at all,” Monty says, taking me by surprise. I spin around to find him standing right behind us, a black T-shirt with the famous tongue of the Rolling Stones on it hugging his chest and exposing all the gorgeous ink on his forearms. His green eyes glitter when they meet mine; the way he’s looking at me, his gaze so intense, his focus only on me, makes it feel as though he can’t look away.

I let out a breathy laugh and wave my hand out in front of me. “I did not have a crush on Monty at school.”

Monty catches my hand, using his strong grasp to tug me forward. The move takes me by such surprise that I stumble right into him. He wraps an arm around my waist so that we’re only a breath apart when he murmurs, “Your cheeks turn such a pretty pink when you lie.”

My chest flashes hot and my cheeks grow tight as I sink farther into the soft fabric of his shirt and inhale the warm scent of him. Like caramel coffee and the end pages of my favorite book.

His lips curl into a smirk. “Xuxuzinho, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” I whisper, my eyes searching his face, taking in his olive skin covered in days-old scruff, his black glasses that make my stomach tighten, the full lips he wets with the tip of his tongue.

“Like you want your boyfriend to kiss you hello.” His words are filled with teasing, but his voice sounds like gravel just the same. It scratches at somewhere deep within me, making it hard to breathe.

“That’s not today’s lesson,” I croak.