The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again Read Free Page B

infinity of books, the unobtrusive companionship of other people, the bright, glossy lure of book jackets, the profoundly secret worlds they enclosed. This was her idea of heaven.
    She was in the Thriller section, looking at the new John Le Carré, when she became aware of the man browsing nearby. How could she
not
notice him? He was
gorgeous.
Tall, muscular, lanky, in his jeans and plaid flannel shirt. Big hands. Curly black hair. He glanced her way, and she saw that his eyes were navy blue.
    He smiled at her.
    Blushing, she hurriedly feigned fascination with the books in front of her, even though she was so absolutely stunned with attraction she might have been in front of the bodybuilding section for all she knew.
    She couldn’t resist: without turning her head, sliding her eyes sideways, she looked his way again.
    The man took a book off the shelf and studied it,
exactly
as Beth did, giving a moment for the cover, turning it over to read the back copy, opening it to the inside back to consider the picture of the author, returning to the inside front to skim the summary, and finally, opening the book in the middle and reading a few lines to get the gist of the author’s style. His hands were large, his fingers beautifully shaped, and he wore no rings. Not married! His left thumb was bandaged, was that a clue? Perhaps he was—a chef?
    As if he sensed her scrutiny, he looked at her again. And smiled that smile, again.
    Beth smiled back.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “Hi.” Beth wished she’d worn something more alluring than her old jeans and blue sweater.
    “Good day for browsing,” he said.
    Beth nodded. He was so handsome. So masculine. What on earth could she say to him?
    He held out a paperback. “Have you read this one?”
    Ah—
this
she could talk about. “I have. It’s brilliant, his best book.”
    He cocked his head, studying her as if she were a curiosity. “You read a lot of thrillers?”
    “I do. I prefer the older ones set in foreign places I know I’ll never travel to. Hammond Innes, Gavin Lyall.”
    He was nodding his head in agreement. “Andrew Garve?”
    “I have a collection of Andrew Garve paperbacks!”
    “I thought I was the only one who knew about Garve.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sonny Young.”
    His hand was warm, his skin slightly rough, which made her own skin tingle. “Beth Grey.”
    “Want to grab a cup of coffee?” He was still holding her hand.
    “Sure,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though if he’d asked her to stand out in the rain with her clothes off, she’d have said “Sure” to that, too.
    ——————————
    The only child of an accountant for H&R Block and a librarian, Beth was well aware that she had lived a sheltered and, some would say, eccentric life. Every weekend of her childhood, her parents took her to the library, the Museum of Fine Arts, the various museums of science, followed by dinner at the Ritz, where she sat up straight and learned to use a fish fork. Some evenings they attended a concert, ballet, or opera. Beth loved every minute of it. Only gradually did she realize that other fathers explained the games of baseball, football, and hockey to their children, rather than the plot of
Tosca.
Other mothers baked, sewed, or planted gardens rather than read.
    In high school, Beth continued accompanying her parents to the theater. By then, she was used to being considered an oddball, a brain. She did have friends, a small group of quiet, intellectual geeks, who eavesdropped in the cafeteria with tremulous awe to the tales of the cool kids doing wild and dangerous things, and who sighed enviously over the popular girls with their bouncy personalities and their dramatic teenage romances. Of course, Beth’s teachers doted on her, little bookworm that she was, and helped her win a scholarship to Smith College, where she earned straight A’s, worked in the library, made some good friends, and finally, in her own timid way, lost her