Read Online Fool's Gold: A Kisses and Crimes Novel by Natalie E. Wrye - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Natalie E. Wrye
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tiny and black.
He motions towards me.
“C’mere, kitten…”
I don’t want to go to him.
I want answers more than I want to be patronized, but when he looks at me, a hint of expectancy in his eyes, I can’t do anything else.
I round the counter, stopping to stand right before his bare feet.
“This is yours,” he says, holding out the phone. “And this…” He reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a gun that I immediately recognize as a revolver. “You are to keep it on you at all times…”
“What…”
“My number is already programmed,” he cuts in. “No one but me will call you on it, and it’s completely untraceable.”
He grabs my hand, placing the rudimentary device in the middle of it.
“When I call, you answer. When it rings, you answer . If it so much as makes it to the third iteration of the ring tone, I will personally find out where the fuck you are and retrieve it and you.”
His implication makes me shudder.
“I’ve got to go take care of something now,” he finishes.
He walks past me, grabbing a pair of shoes and a black bag I’ve never seen before heading for the door with both in tow.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I just stand there, stupidly, phone in hand, letting another secret between us go right out the door.
“Bishop!” I call after him.
He turns. “Yeah?”
I shift on my feet. “You know I’m not just going to stay waiting for you all day.”
He nods. “I know.”
I hold out my other empty hand. “How will I get out without a key?”
He grins then, making my stomach do a flip.
“You’ll leave the way you did before.” He pauses. “ You didn’t think I was going to make it easy for you, did you ?”
***
The bookstore in which I’ve wandered is only one of the many wonders of Annecy.
I found a river that runs throughout town, a bakery (chockfull of crepes and macaroons), a chocolatier, antique shop and, finally, my favorite cup of tea: books.
Loads of them, crammed into a corner store that wasn’t much bigger than my closet at the loft.
Peppered with little stands of confections and trinkets at the end of each shelf, it had the character of a fairytale scene—quaint, whimsical and clandestine.
It was hidden enough to feel like my own little secret.
And I loved it from the minute I stepped foot inside.
The owner Geoffrey—an older, little man with hands that betrayed his eighty years and lively eyes that seemed eighteen—regaled me with a story about its origins, never once missing an opportunity to mention how’d he “built” it with his own two spindly hands.
Hands that busied themselves as he flipped through books and receipts behind the check out counter.
Hands that helped to tell a tale I could envision as Geoffrey mimed out a depiction of the little shop’s animated history.
I had a blast… especially when he pointed out the Romance section.
I sauntered on my way to the back, touching pages with my fingertips as I perused.
I finally land on an interesting looking shelf.
Now in the back of the tiny store, I pull out a beautifully illustrated little book.
It’s called Bonjour Tristesse. Hello Sadness.
I read the first paragraph, feeling anxious. Impatient, I splay the pages with one shaky hand, keeping the other on the phone in my tight-fitting pants.
It reads:
“ A strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sadness. In the past, the idea of sadness always appealed to me; now I am almost shamed of its egoism. I had known boredom, regret and at times remorse but never sadness. Today something envelops me like silken web, enervating and soft, which isolates me… ”
It is bittersweet—a strange start to what promises to be a beautifully sad story. I almost hate to say it… but I am hooked by the time I read the last sentence.
I want to bookmark it… but the only thing I have to use is the crumpled note that I’d written last
He motions towards me.
“C’mere, kitten…”
I don’t want to go to him.
I want answers more than I want to be patronized, but when he looks at me, a hint of expectancy in his eyes, I can’t do anything else.
I round the counter, stopping to stand right before his bare feet.
“This is yours,” he says, holding out the phone. “And this…” He reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a gun that I immediately recognize as a revolver. “You are to keep it on you at all times…”
“What…”
“My number is already programmed,” he cuts in. “No one but me will call you on it, and it’s completely untraceable.”
He grabs my hand, placing the rudimentary device in the middle of it.
“When I call, you answer. When it rings, you answer . If it so much as makes it to the third iteration of the ring tone, I will personally find out where the fuck you are and retrieve it and you.”
His implication makes me shudder.
“I’ve got to go take care of something now,” he finishes.
He walks past me, grabbing a pair of shoes and a black bag I’ve never seen before heading for the door with both in tow.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I just stand there, stupidly, phone in hand, letting another secret between us go right out the door.
“Bishop!” I call after him.
He turns. “Yeah?”
I shift on my feet. “You know I’m not just going to stay waiting for you all day.”
He nods. “I know.”
I hold out my other empty hand. “How will I get out without a key?”
He grins then, making my stomach do a flip.
“You’ll leave the way you did before.” He pauses. “ You didn’t think I was going to make it easy for you, did you ?”
***
The bookstore in which I’ve wandered is only one of the many wonders of Annecy.
I found a river that runs throughout town, a bakery (chockfull of crepes and macaroons), a chocolatier, antique shop and, finally, my favorite cup of tea: books.
Loads of them, crammed into a corner store that wasn’t much bigger than my closet at the loft.
Peppered with little stands of confections and trinkets at the end of each shelf, it had the character of a fairytale scene—quaint, whimsical and clandestine.
It was hidden enough to feel like my own little secret.
And I loved it from the minute I stepped foot inside.
The owner Geoffrey—an older, little man with hands that betrayed his eighty years and lively eyes that seemed eighteen—regaled me with a story about its origins, never once missing an opportunity to mention how’d he “built” it with his own two spindly hands.
Hands that busied themselves as he flipped through books and receipts behind the check out counter.
Hands that helped to tell a tale I could envision as Geoffrey mimed out a depiction of the little shop’s animated history.
I had a blast… especially when he pointed out the Romance section.
I sauntered on my way to the back, touching pages with my fingertips as I perused.
I finally land on an interesting looking shelf.
Now in the back of the tiny store, I pull out a beautifully illustrated little book.
It’s called Bonjour Tristesse. Hello Sadness.
I read the first paragraph, feeling anxious. Impatient, I splay the pages with one shaky hand, keeping the other on the phone in my tight-fitting pants.
It reads:
“ A strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sadness. In the past, the idea of sadness always appealed to me; now I am almost shamed of its egoism. I had known boredom, regret and at times remorse but never sadness. Today something envelops me like silken web, enervating and soft, which isolates me… ”
It is bittersweet—a strange start to what promises to be a beautifully sad story. I almost hate to say it… but I am hooked by the time I read the last sentence.
I want to bookmark it… but the only thing I have to use is the crumpled note that I’d written last
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