“Ma’am”—Martin wags his finger at me—“Dolly is from Tennessee.”
“Close enough.” I shrug. “I take Ozzie to meet you and your mystery guest, and I end up running into my dad and meeting Smith and his shiny new girlfriend instead. That’s why this is all your fault.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I guess it is.” He clears his throat. “Seeing as how you have Smith’s number, maybe you can tell him you’re not comfortable with them coming to dinner. He did say that it was up to you.”
“People don’t mean that when they say it, at least not in my experience. Plus, if my dad found out I revoked his invitation, he’d be upset with me because a Banks never goes back on their word. I need a solid twenty-four-hour stretch without fighting with my dad if I have any hope of getting a loan for the Smut Coven.”
He quirks his brow. “Listen, you can’t use the phrase Smut Coven without giving me some details.”
I give Martin the details. In the time that it takes us to walk around my neighborhood block twice, I fill Martin in on everything. I tell him about the girls and the books they write. I tell him about the night we found the perfect building with the big sunny windows that were practically begging to have someone sit next to them and read. I tell him how Jackie helped us build a business plan. She’s a Virgo, so numbers are her thing. Chelsey’s a Cancer, so she’ll make sure the place is beautiful and homey. It’ll be the kind of store people will want to spend hours in and tell their friends about.
For the first time since I boarded the plane back home, I feel excited about the store again. It’s the same sort of electric buzz I get when a new book idea hits me and demands my attention. It’s the kind of passion I need to convey when I’m talking to my father about the loan we need to make this dream a reality. But how the hell do I do that when my father won’t stop talking about Smith Mackenzie and his exotic international travels?
“Why only romance books?” Martin asks. “Wouldn’t it make sense to carry all types of books to appeal to more readers?”
“Because then we’d be like every other bookstore,” I reply. “Romance is the most read genre. It’s the backbone of the publishing industry. But it’s not given half the respect or shelf space that other genres receive. Do you know how many independent bookstores I’ve visited that don’t even have a dedicated romance shelf, let alone a section? A shit ton. But you bet your ass they have a huge travel book section that nobody touches.”
I’m practically levitating. I’ve got so much fiery passion coursing through my veins that I could do nine rounds with a prizefighter and never break a sweat.
“It’s like McDonald’s.” Martin taps his chin thoughtfully. “Nobody likes to admit it’s what they ate for dinner, yet they’re selling millions of burgers every hour across the globe.”
“Exactly!” I give Martin’s shoulder what I think is a playful punch, but seeing how he winces, I may have overdone it. “And we don’t want there to be any shame or guilt associated with romance books. We want our booksellers to be knowledgeable and proud of the books we sell, and we want our readers to feel safe. No judgment. Just guilt-free pleasure.”
“How do you think your dad’s going to react to your pitch?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I say. “I guess I’ve been so caught up in finding an opportunity to make the pitch that I haven’t had time to think about how he’ll react or what he’ll ultimately decide. I mean, the man has never been proud of what I do for a living.”
“That’s not true.” Martin shakes his head. “Not by a long shot.”
“Were we at the same table last night?”
“He’s got this picture of you on his desk. It’s not a professional shot or anything. Just a candid of you sitting in a leather chair with your legs curled up underneath. You’ve got a book in your lap and this little smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, and your curls are piled on top of your head.”
“You sound like you’ve spent a fair amount of time with my picture.” I lift an eyebrow.
“I’m in his office a lot.” Is he blushing? “Anyway, one day he caught me looking at it, so he told me about you.”
I rack my brain trying to place this picture he’s describing, but for the life of me, I can’t. It doesn’t sound like my dad to have such a candid photo in his office on display. A professionally painted portrait of his family? Yes. That’s my dad. School pictures rotating out of metal picture frames every year. That’s Carter Banks. Posed and poised is what my dad prefers, or at least that’s what the Carter Banks I knew did.
“What did he say?”
“He said, That’s my Penelope. She’s an author.”
My Penelope.
He used to call me that when I was little. He’s never called me Penny. Both he and my mother hated the idea of me being named after pocket change. My Penelope was the closest I ever got to having a nickname with him and, god, did I love it. Even now, my breath catches in my chest just thinking about him calling me that. Hearing him say it had felt like a warm hug, and more often than not, it was the closest my father could ever come to an actual hug.
“Then he told me all about how hard it is to get a book published,” Martin went on. “He made it very clear that you did it all on your own. He said, Penelope is like Jane Austen or Emily Dickinson. She makes her own rules. She doesn’t need anyone to be happy. After that, I couldn’t wait to meet you.”
“My writing is nothing like Austen or Dickinson,” I say. “Neither of them ever wrote a good orgasm, as far as I can remember.”
“I think he meant their drive and will, and not their ability to articulate a woman’s climax.”
“They also ended up dying alone. What about that sounded appealing to you?” I ask. “Have you always had the hots for Gilded Age spinsters?”
“I’m not even sure I know what a Gilded Age spinster is, Banks. I just know that I hadn’t ever heard your dad talk about someone the way he talked about you, and if you could impress Carter Banks, then you must be something special.”
“I wish I knew him the way you do. The person you’re describing couldn’t be more different than the father I grew up with.”
“Maybe he’s not the same father anymore.” He takes my hand, and something about it just feels right. “You’re not the same daughter. Maybe you both need a reintroduction, and maybe this business venture of yours is the way to go about it. You’d get to see him in his element, and he’d see you in yours.”
“I’m asking for a loan,” I say. “Not a business partner.”
“Your dad isn’t the silent-partner kind of guy, Banks. If you want his money, he comes with it. That’s a good thing. You want a guy like your dad in your corner. Anybody can give you money to run a business, but your dad can show you how to make a business thrive.”
We stop in front of my house, and I make a point not to look at the Mackenzies’ place. Poor Ozzie’s panting so hard, I think he’s syncopated his breaths to say Help me, help me. My heart rate is up too, only I’m pretty sure mine has to do with the idea of my father being my business partner. Of course he’d want to be a part of it! I was an idiot not to realize that on my own.
“My dad can’t be my business partner,” I say. “He’s not even a part of the Smut Coven.”
“Let me help you come up with your pitch and plan.” Martin rests his hands on my shoulders. “I know how your dad thinks about business. I can help you position yourself so that you feel safe and stay in charge.”
“OK.” I glance over my shoulder at my parents’ front door. “Any chance you want to come inside with me and defile a turkey?”
“You’re into some kinky shit, Banks.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m actually going to keep walking a little longer. I do my best thinking when I’m walking, or when I’m in the shower.”