Read Online Worth the Wait by Caitlin Ricci & Cari Z. - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Caitlin Ricci & Cari Z.
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you do, you’ll be her favorite uncle. Addie’s been on a Withershine kick for the last six months, and the new releases are always slow to get here.”
Tate chuckled. “I’m her only uncle, but I’m sure I can do this. When’s the signing?”
“There’s this thing called the Internet. It magically connects you to information without you ever having to leave your apartment—”
Tate flipped his brother the finger. “Jackass.”
He’d figured it out eventually, and figured that since the signing was on a Friday from five to close, he could just show up after work. He’d bought used copies of two of Withershine’s other books in advance, just in case they sold out of the new one, and had congratulated himself on his foresight.
Tate had had no idea that people had been lining up for this signing since morning, but his naiveté was disabused the moment he got off the bus. The line stretched for three blocks back down the mall, parents and kids and plenty of other interested readers all waiting impatiently for the inches to go by. Tate had gotten in line at the end, his head swimming a little, and had checked his watch. Four thirty. And he’d thought he was being clever by leaving work early.
Now, an hour and a half later, he was half a block farther along and very, very cold. His skin crawled beneath his clothes, and Tate suppressed a shiver. He bounced on the balls of his feet a little, trying to warm up a bit. He rolled his neck, then his shoulders, then—“Shit!” The plastic bag holding his used books tumbled out of his hands and spilled onto the pavement. “No, no, no.” Tate dove for the bag, which still had one of the books in its protective skin, but the other…. Where was it? Tate looked around wildly but couldn’t see anything book shaped in the fading light. The streetlamps would flicker on soon, but by then it would be too late. The book would be ruined.
“Hey.” A light voice pulled Tate out of his growing panic. “I think I found your escapee.”
He turned and looked at the guy speaking to him from under a bright yellow umbrella, and sighed with relief when he saw the book in the man’s hand.
“Thanks,” Tate breathed, reaching for the book and inspecting it anxiously. “Damn it.” The pages on one side were soaked through, already wrinkling from the wet.
“It’s a little worse for wear, but I think that just adds character,” the man said.
“I guess there isn’t much I can do about it.” For a moment Tate wished he was a kid again, just so he would have an excuse to throw a tantrum, but he squashed the impulse and tore his eyes away from the sodden book. “Thanks anyway. I appreciate… it.” Oh, wow. He was… well. He was a few inches taller than Tate, wearing a close-fitting quilted red jacket and dark jeans. His skin was warm brown, almost a copper color, and he was smiling in a way that made Tate automatically smile back, unable to keep his lips from curling up.
“No problem,” the man said. “You might want to reclaim your place in the line. It looks like it’ll be swallowed up if you’re not vigilant.”
“Oh, right.” Tate’s place had already been swallowed, in fact, but a stern glare coupled with inexorably shifting back into the queue had the woman who’d moved up grudgingly making space. Tate put the book back in the bag, wet side up. “Thanks again.”
“Sure. Aren’t you cold?”
“Does it show?” Tate asked ruefully, and the guy chuckled. “A little. Hopefully I’ll make it inside before I freeze solid.” Now that the sun was gone, it was getting downright frosty.
“Yeah,” the guy agreed. “Maybe this will help.” He handed over his umbrella, or tried to. Tate stared at it for a second.
“I can’t just steal your umbrella. Then you’ll get soaked.”
“I’m not in line for the signing,” the guy told him. “And you’re not stealing it. I’m letting you borrow it. C’mon.”
He pushed it toward Tate again, and his
Tate chuckled. “I’m her only uncle, but I’m sure I can do this. When’s the signing?”
“There’s this thing called the Internet. It magically connects you to information without you ever having to leave your apartment—”
Tate flipped his brother the finger. “Jackass.”
He’d figured it out eventually, and figured that since the signing was on a Friday from five to close, he could just show up after work. He’d bought used copies of two of Withershine’s other books in advance, just in case they sold out of the new one, and had congratulated himself on his foresight.
Tate had had no idea that people had been lining up for this signing since morning, but his naiveté was disabused the moment he got off the bus. The line stretched for three blocks back down the mall, parents and kids and plenty of other interested readers all waiting impatiently for the inches to go by. Tate had gotten in line at the end, his head swimming a little, and had checked his watch. Four thirty. And he’d thought he was being clever by leaving work early.
Now, an hour and a half later, he was half a block farther along and very, very cold. His skin crawled beneath his clothes, and Tate suppressed a shiver. He bounced on the balls of his feet a little, trying to warm up a bit. He rolled his neck, then his shoulders, then—“Shit!” The plastic bag holding his used books tumbled out of his hands and spilled onto the pavement. “No, no, no.” Tate dove for the bag, which still had one of the books in its protective skin, but the other…. Where was it? Tate looked around wildly but couldn’t see anything book shaped in the fading light. The streetlamps would flicker on soon, but by then it would be too late. The book would be ruined.
“Hey.” A light voice pulled Tate out of his growing panic. “I think I found your escapee.”
He turned and looked at the guy speaking to him from under a bright yellow umbrella, and sighed with relief when he saw the book in the man’s hand.
“Thanks,” Tate breathed, reaching for the book and inspecting it anxiously. “Damn it.” The pages on one side were soaked through, already wrinkling from the wet.
“It’s a little worse for wear, but I think that just adds character,” the man said.
“I guess there isn’t much I can do about it.” For a moment Tate wished he was a kid again, just so he would have an excuse to throw a tantrum, but he squashed the impulse and tore his eyes away from the sodden book. “Thanks anyway. I appreciate… it.” Oh, wow. He was… well. He was a few inches taller than Tate, wearing a close-fitting quilted red jacket and dark jeans. His skin was warm brown, almost a copper color, and he was smiling in a way that made Tate automatically smile back, unable to keep his lips from curling up.
“No problem,” the man said. “You might want to reclaim your place in the line. It looks like it’ll be swallowed up if you’re not vigilant.”
“Oh, right.” Tate’s place had already been swallowed, in fact, but a stern glare coupled with inexorably shifting back into the queue had the woman who’d moved up grudgingly making space. Tate put the book back in the bag, wet side up. “Thanks again.”
“Sure. Aren’t you cold?”
“Does it show?” Tate asked ruefully, and the guy chuckled. “A little. Hopefully I’ll make it inside before I freeze solid.” Now that the sun was gone, it was getting downright frosty.
“Yeah,” the guy agreed. “Maybe this will help.” He handed over his umbrella, or tried to. Tate stared at it for a second.
“I can’t just steal your umbrella. Then you’ll get soaked.”
“I’m not in line for the signing,” the guy told him. “And you’re not stealing it. I’m letting you borrow it. C’mon.”
He pushed it toward Tate again, and his
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