Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

considering his offer, and in those five seconds I’ve spotted approximately three bats and four glowing eyes in the corner of the ceiling.

He turns his back. “I’ll change out her blankets and pillows.”

I’m reminded of Ruth saying Violet died in her sleep, full-body shuddering with goose bumps to think that I’ll be lying in her bed. “Could you flip the mattress, too?” I call at his retreating back.

Wesley doesn’t reply. He eases sideways into the passageway and disappears.

“Don’t bother to wait up or anything,” I grumble, picking my way along after. “Not like you’ll care if I die.” Just means he’ll get 100 percent of the estate rather than fifty. Maybe I should be more suspicious.

I make slow progress. Play-Doh mega sets and bead bracelet kits wobble in my wake, glaring ominously down at my unprotected skull. I would hate to die by Etch A Sketch.

By the time I’ve made it out of the house, Wesley’s long gone. When I open the cabin’s front door, there’s a split-second flash of movement as a pull-down ladder folds up into the ceiling. Footsteps thud above, followed by stark quiet.

Violet’s room holds few belongings, likely because she kept her hoard at the manor and didn’t want to cross-contaminate. Or didn’t want to make Wesley’s life challenging by carrying the addiction over into his space.

It’s spare but homey. A comfy queen bed, a dark cherry bureau, a lamp, a bookcase. There’s an air of unfinished business about the room, however. It has the flavor of someone going to sleep in it one night, unaware they’d be gone the next day. My imagination is running away with me again.

I haul my luggage out of my car, too tired to properly unpack. I’m hungry and in desperate need of a shower, but first, curiosity niggles. I float over to the lilac stationery Ruth taped to the wall, and what I find there raises both eyebrows.

violet’s dying wishes

IGNORE AT YOUR OWN PERIL

(I’LL HAUNT YOU DOWN, BESTOW 1,000-YEAR CURSES UPON YOUR BLOODLINES, ETC.)

Wish 1. Take extraordinary (extraordinary!) care to comb through every single item in the house before you decide to donate/dispose/keep.

Wish 2. Victor thought there was buried treasure out here but I never did find any. For the intrepid explorer, Finders Keepers rules apply.

Wish 3. Maybell, dear, I’d be thrilled if you painted a mural in the ballroom.

Wish 4. Movie night with a friend is sacred law, don’t forget. Wesley, I’d love for you to make my favorite cinnamon-sugar donuts for the occasion.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

I WALTZ INTO MY coffee shop in the clouds and he’s already there, wiping down the counter with a damp rag. Everything goes soft and out-of-focus fuzzy, black and white like an old film. A dark vignette fades out all the people in the room but one, who seems to glow at the edges. He looks up at me, flashing a radiant smile he never shares with anyone else.

Today, Jack isn’t a prince. He’s a barista. We’ve enjoyed a will-they-won’t-they dynamic for ages, but we’ve reached my favorite part of the love story: the sexual tension is at its peak and we’ve got nowhere to go but over the edge in a sensual, tour de force declaration of love. We know each other inside out by now. We trust each other and accept each other’s flaws. I know he’ll never hurt me, because in Maybell’s Coffee Shop AU, hurting me is impossible without my say-so.

“Maybell,” he says breathlessly, rushing over. “I can’t hold it in anymore. The past few months have been unspeakable torture, and if I don’t tell you how I really feel I will fall down dead right here and now.”

“Jack!” I exclaim. “Whatever is the matter?”

He takes my hands in his. “When I look at you, I can’t think straight. Aphrodite who? You are the goddess of beauty. Your mind is a splendor. It’s impressive how you can do any calculation inside your head, like if I asked what fourteen thousand two hundred and eighty-seven times twenty thousand five hundred and forty-one is, you’d know the answer like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“The answer is [redacted],” I reply humbly. “But I don’t like to think of myself as smart. I’m just your average girl.”

“There’s nothing average about you, Maybell,” he goes on, gaze yearning. He sweeps me off my feet, holding me princess-style in his arms. “You’re compassionate and genuine and popular, all eyes on you every time you walk into a room. And your eyes! Incomparable. They’re the prettiest blue, like the water in Sandals Resorts commercials. I hope I’m not gushing too much. But my heart can’t take it any longer—I have to know how you feel about me.”

“This is all so . . . unexpected.” I am positively faint. To think I’ve been so consumed with my busy, successful café—the most successful café in this entire vague area, in fact—that I’ve hardly noticed what’s been brewing between us, right under my nose. Or maybe I’ve been secretly pining. I haven’t finalized the trope just yet.

“I love you, Jack McBride,” I reply solemnly. “And I am ready to bear your children.”

Everyone claps. I notice my parents in one of the booths, proud as can be. They’re in matching white leather jackets that say world tour on the back in rhinestones, and my mother (who’s also my best friend) is beaming with happiness. She has everything she’s ever wanted; she has only ever wanted the same happiness for me.

Color bleeds back into the scene, and for the first time, I realize we’re standing in red rose petals that take the shape of a heart. Candlelight dazzles off every surface. Jack’s reached a level of hotness so severe that I have to shade my eyes, as his hair is dripping wet for some reason and he’s wearing a loose white cotton shirt with buttons that come progressively more undone every time I look away. He grins seductively. “Well, what are we waiting—”

BEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEP.

The café disintegrates. I spring out of my bed