More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
I’m surrounded by happy endings—my six siblings, their partners, their children, my still-so-in-love parents—and, given my love of happy endings, I should be fully, utterly content, too. But I’m not. Because I’m still waiting for my happy ending.
But that would have required admitting something I was much too proud to admit: I’d already tried to make Tallulah Clarke smile, years ago. And I’d failed.
And then, behind them, as striking as a sudden silent storm, walks in Charlie’s sister, the only other secret I’ve kept in my life: Tallulah Clarke.
The secret is exactly who Tallulah Clarke was to me.
Tallulah and I don’t have a history. Or, I suppose you could say, we have a very one-sided history. I was fascinated by Tallulah, by her gorgeous looks, her expensive-smelling, sultry floral perfume, her always covered mysterious, thick-spined books. But Tallulah didn’t have the time of day for me. My pride was pricked.
Those damn lovely Bergman eyes. So deceptively cold for such warm people. They’re the pale blue-gray of a winter sky heavy with the promise of snow, yet they throw heat like a fire that could thaw you on the most frigid of days, right to your bones.
He believes in destiny and swoons and happy endings. I believe that’s all a crock of shit. Not to mention the complications of trying for a one-night stand with my sister’s best friend’s brother. No, too many entanglements, too many ways it could go wrong.
It feels like Viggo is building a stockpile, an arsenal of Tallulah facts stored up to use against me, to draw me in, to know me, like I’ve never wanted him to.
“Someone’s bossy.” A twinkle settles in his eyes. He grins. “I can be. But generally, I much prefer when it’s the other way around.” My mouth falls open as he plucks my mug from the rictus of my clenched hand. And then Viggo Bergman strolls right by, his arm brushing mine, leaving me to melt into a resentful, lusty puddle on his deck.
I wrenched the car in park, walked in, and”—he shrugs, his expression turning dreamy—“that was that. Love at first sight.” Good grief. “Love at first sight, huh?” “It was this magical little place, Lula.” His voice is soft, nostalgic. “Shelves crammed with every kind of book you can think of. Chipped china cups stacked by the register, a rusty electric kettle, ancient bags of Lipton tea. Movie posters from days gone by, dusty stacks of comic books, grimy windows the light barely snuck through.”
“It was. It could have been even more so. That’s what I saw when I walked in there, its potential.”
“You’ve been driving two hours to work at a bookstore?” He nods. “Yeah.” “Two hours. Each way. To work at a poky little bookstore in Escondido. That cannot have been worth it.”
That’s how you know you really love something, Tallulahloo, when it feels worth the hassle, when even the hardest parts of it feel like a gift.”
“What the hell? You drove four hours a day, twice a week, to run a musty old bookshop in Escondido that got closed down, and for what?”
“How’s it taste,” Viggo asks, beaming up at him, “that hefty dose of delusional thinking mixed in with your morning joe?”
“Once you swap a secret with a Bergman, you’re bonded to them for life. We’re friends now, Lulaloo. Like it or not.” “I do not like. I unlike. Unsubscribe. Unfollow.”
Think about how many great stories are built on friendships between people who couldn’t be more different. Difference is what makes the world beautiful, Lu, it’s what makes life interesting.”
Bergman’s Romance Books & More—Bergman’s Books, for short. Well, it will be called that. Right now it’s still Joe’s Sandwich Shop, according to Google Maps.
I want to take care of my patrons when they come to my store. This place is all about happily ever afters, and I’m not about to mislead them. I know romance isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and I respect that—so long as people don’t bad-mouth the genre—but this place is for the people for whom romance reading is their joy.
One chapter in, and I knew—I knew—it was Tallulah’s. Her elegant, streamlined prose—never too much exposition or description; balanced, well-paced dialogue.
I hold tight to what I’m holding out for—an epic romance, a grand, once-in-a-lifetime connection with someone who turns my world upside down, who makes me feel that glorious thrill romance novels capture.
I don’t think any of them understand what it is to want romantic love the way I want it—to walk around with this aching, gnawing want that feels like a sickness spreading through me the longer it goes untreated.
And he’s also sucked me into his world of tattoos. I now have three, thanks to his bad influence.
Why is he so warm to me, when I’m so cold? Why is he soft when I’m sharp?
“You didn’t think it was weird that I’ve named all my plants.” I shrug. “You have strong plant-daddy energy; I’m not surprised.” “I named them for romance authors. Lisa Kleypas. Beverly Jenkins. Tessa Dare. Lorraine Heath. Courtney Milan. Cat Sebastian—”
“Tallulah, you do. You wrote about people healing together, rediscovering hope. That’s a happy ending.”
As I stare down at her, a fierce pang of longing floods me. Every time I’m around her, I feel so much, none of which I can make sense of. No, she doesn’t give me butterflies; the world didn’t become brighter the first time I saw her stroll into our lecture. But I know I feel something for her.
strike him from the list of eligible roommates, but I’m not going to sleep with him, not going to throw my emotionless-sex self at a die-hard romantic. In fact, agreeing to be roommates is the best way to avoid that temptation, if Viggo is even interested in sleeping with me. Even if he is, Viggo is a gentleman.
“We’re doing a skills swap, of sorts. He’s going to help me iron out the kinks in my book—” “ ‘Iron out the kinks,’ eh? Is he going to help ‘fill your plot holes,’ too?” I thwack her with a pillow. “It’s not like that. Our arrangement is just business.
I’m so scared to want anything from anyone. All it’s ever done is hurt me.
I’m a thick girl. I take up space in a doorway. And while Viggo’s lean, he’s broad—wide shoulders, wider stance—and he’s not turned sideways, unprepared for my entrance during his exit. His elbow knocks into my boobs, making me hiss in pain, sending me bumping back into the doorframe. I try to steady myself as I lurch sideways and trip over his foot.
So, just . . . please, please, promise you won’t take my fuckups personally. It’s me. I’m the problem.” Viggo grins. “We’re a Swiftie, are we?”
Oliver gasps for air, lifting his hands in praise. “Sweet, fresh oxygen. Thank you, Jesus.” Seb, looking peeved, rakes a hand through his disheveled hair. “Remind me never to hide in a closet with you ever again. You are the least quiet or still person ever.”
“Christ,” Viggo mutters, scrubbing his face. I turn toward Viggo. “Why were you hiding your brothers in a closet?” “We,” Seb says, pointer finger darting between him and Viggo, “are not related. Thank God.”
Viggo drops his head. His eyes meet mine. “I might have overstepped a little bit over the years in the area of my family’s love lives—well, their lives in general, honestly—and now my chickens are coming home to roost.”
Considering everything I know about love from what I’ve read in romance novels, what I’ve seen in my family, I’m not falling for Tallulah Clarke.
Besides the A-frame and a well-stocked romance-only bookstore, IKEA is my happiest happy place. It is not, apparently, Tallulah’s.
“Lu, I’m half-Swedish. I cannot allow for a single piece of IKEA furniture in my home to be assembled by some . . . some stranger, when these two hands are perfectly fit, when my genetics are designed to do this.”
“And I will not back down on this either: no fake plants.” Tallulah gasps. “Hey! That’s for my room. It’s the only kind of plant I can keep alive!” “Lula, I got some tough news for you, but you deserve to know the truth—it was never alive to begin with.”
I yank the fake plant out of her bag again and slam it back down on the candle stand. “Then we’ll get you some!” “I’ll kill them!” she yells. “I won’t let you kill them!” I yell back.
I’m avoidant. I know this. I’m averse to opening myself up to people.
“I was a pushy asshole back at IKEA. About the fake plant. About assembling the shoe organizers.
Roommates. We. Are. Roommates. Nothing more.
“This,” I tell Tallulah, setting down my whiskey glass, “tastes like a bonfire in my mouth. And that is not a compliment.”
“I have a buddy, Wesley, who rescued a cat last month.” I drain my beer, needing to wet my throat. “Turns out, Wesley’s rescue cat was pregnant, which now means he has a litter of rescue kittens, too.” She peers my way, eyebrow arched. “And?” “And I was, uh . . .” I scratch at the back of my neck. “I was going to adopt all of them.” Her eyes widen. “All of them?” “Well, there are only five.” “Five!” she yells, leaning forward. “Five,” I confirm.
“Was there a point to this feline anecdote?”
I’m hiding my loneliness, my fear of failure, my exhaustion from years of hustling, scrimping, and saving, my ache for someone who wants to see and love all of that. “You,” she whispers, leaning in, clutching my jaw between her hands, “are hiding a hot-as-hell bone structure beneath all that beard. It’s a tragedy.”
“You define crush.” Tallulah shrugs, then pulls her phone from her pocket. After opening it, then typing, she says, eyes on her screen, “According to Merriam-Webster—” “I don’t want Merriam-Webster’s definition,” I tell her. “I want yours.”
I swallow roughly and shift just a bit on the sofa, lifting my leg enough to hopefully hide what the command in her voice, what talking about this, does to me. “I thought about what it would be like to touch you. Kiss you. Taste you. Make you come undone. To have those big, beautiful eyes holding mine while I did it.” Her breath hitches. Her fingers curl around my wrist. “Did you ever . . . touch yourself to the thought of me?” “Fuck, yes.”
Viggo shakes his head, a smile breaking across his face, before he sips his coffee. “I also may have been reading a steamy scene when you walked in.” My jaw drops. “Wait. Romance novels do that to you?” “Mm-hmm,” he says, throwing me a glance over his coffee mug. “Now romance novels have your attention, don’t
