Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Moody inclined his head. “Did you say mystery? Come this way, please.”
He led me toward the rear of the store to a section dedicated to Mystery, Suspense, True Crime, and Moody’s Podcast Tips. He gave a mini dissertation on a few of his go-to authors in the genre, his voracious appetite for old-time thrillers, and his current obsession with murdery podcasts.
It was information overload at its finest. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was wasting his breath. “Occasional mystery novel fan” was code for it was the genre of the last book I’d read all the way through. Truthfully, I rarely got through two paragraphs at the end of the night before conking out.
I juggled the stack of books he’d handed me, flipping the top one over to read the blurb. “This one looks good.”
Moody squealed in agreement. “It’s a roller-coaster ride of a thriller—fast-paced, buckle your seat belt, and be prepared to sleep with the lights on. I don’t spook easily, but that one scared the bejeezus out of me. You’ll love it!”
I smiled, something I’d done a lot of since I’d walked in his shop. And while it was a rusty gesture for me, it was genuine. “Cool. I’ll take it.”
“Terrific. I can ring you up now, if you’re ready.”
The bell at the front desk trilled on cue. “Yoo-hoo, Moody! Are you here?”
“Be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Moody called out.
I raised a brow at his old-fashioned phraseology. It was a tad jarring coming from someone who I’d guess was no older than thirty-five…tops.
“It’s okay. I’d like to look around,” I insisted.
“Excellent. Holler if you need anything.”
I gave a thumbs-up and perused the shelves while fellow shoppers filtered in and out of the store. Soft jazz drifted over Moody’s melodic voice as he chatted amicably with customers who seemed to know him well.
“Love this cookbook,” Moody commented as he rang up a sale.
“Did you try Sharon’s chili recipe yet?” someone asked.
“Affirmative. That chapter was called, ‘Death by Chili Powder.’ It was a disaster. Too spicy for this fella.” Moody held up another customer’s purchase. “You found the new Pumpkin Patch Posse book!”
“ ’Tis the season,” the woman replied. “I took my kids to the pumpkin patch in Solvang last weekend. I bought a few extra, if you’d like a couple for the store.”
Moody gasped. “I’d be tickled pink! You’re like…the real Great Pumpkin, First Edition, Chapter One.”
She cackled as if he’d told the funniest joke ever. Me? I didn’t get it. The dude was an oddball with a quirky sense of humor, but he was fascinating too. Moody was energetic and friendly, tailoring casual conversations to book purchases and weaving personal tidbits in along the way.
I’d spent less than fifteen minutes in his company, and I was bewitched…or maybe just bewildered.
Who was this guy? How old was he? Where was he from? Why books? Was he gay or straight or bi? Was he married or—
Screech!
Nothing ruined a casually curious moment quite like the M word.
I stepped up to the register and set two thrillers on the counter. “I’ll take these.”
Moody placed the books side by side and tapped each of the covers. “Excellent choices. You’ll be spooktastically entertained. I questioned the author’s use of Greek mythology, but she ties it up beautifully and honestly, that’s just me. I always have questions.”
I pulled my card from my wallet. “Good to know. I have one for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Why do they call you Moody instead of Louis?” I tipped my hat and flashed a lazy half smile at him that once again felt more natural than the grimace I’d perfected recently. Yep, still flirting.
“It’s my name,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Your last name. In my family, my brother was named after our dad, William. Dad was Bill, but for some reason, my brother’s football teammates call him Bano, a very rough squished-together version of our last name, and it stuck.”
Moody squinted thoughtfully. “I’ve always been Moody. I’m aware that being called by one’s surname evokes collegiate athletic synergy, but nothing could be further from the truth for me. I assure you, I did not play football or basketball or any sport involving a ball or a stick or sweat whilst in school. Do you play sports?”
“I played football in high school and for two years in college. But that was a dozen years ago or so.”
He ran my card and slipped the books into a paper bag. “And now you’re a rancher?”
“I am.”
Was it my imagination, or did Moody’s gaze roam my chest and biceps, traveling south for a beat before meeting my eyes?
“What does a rancher do, exactly? I assume there are horses and livestock and a lot of fences to repair.” He pushed his glasses into place and continued in a rush, “At least, that’s how it goes in romance novels.”