Tastes Like Winter Read Online Free Page B

her, and I knew deep down she enjoyed the leadership and team
environment. I also knew it was important to listen and let her air her
frustrations so she could get back to loving it. That was my job as best
friend.
    “This too shall pass,” I add wisely, and she bows her head, agreeing
with and accepting my sage advice.

OCTOBER
    I push open the heavy oak door of High Street, and before my eyes can
adjust to the changing light and make out Betsy’s silhouette, she is already
halfway into conversation.
    “…and we have to push the clearance carts to the sides and start
setting up chairs—fifty or so should do. And the display table will be
over here, and I made extra signs…” She rambles on.
    “—Sorry,” I interrupt. “Did I miss something?”
    “The Evelyn Whitmore reading is tonight! Don’t tell me you forgot,
Emma. You know, for such a smart girl, you can be so absentminded…” Betsy snickers
and continues mumbling to herself. “But then again, I guess the kids these days
don’t get excited about real literature. Real art! Oh, I hope she reads the
excerpt from when Rodrigo comes home from the Battle of Burgengardd .
I absolutely love that scene. Dreamy Rodrigo…”
    Now that she mentions it, I do remember discussing an upcoming book
reading and author signing last week. It was less of a discussion and more
Betsy giving me a long lecture about the many talents of Mrs. Whitmore, her
favorite author. She wrote a whole series of war novels interweaving historical
facts with Harlequin- esque love stories. The History
Channel for housewives. They are currently developing a television drama to
bring her books to life and have nabbed Lorenzo Bastille, from the popular soap
opera Time in a Bottle, to play the lead. Evelyn is doing a nationwide book
tour to drum up publicity for the show, and High Street Books is her next stop.
    Betsy has stopped talking and is now
looking up at me, bright-eyed. It’s official. My boss is a fangirl .
I chuckle, mostly to myself. I love her enthusiasm. Her energy is positively
infectious and exactly what I need these days. I give her shoulder a gentle
squeeze to show my approval, and satisfied by my response, she returns to her
stack of flyers.
    I make my way down the aisles of books and through the supply room
doors, letting them flap noisily on their rusty hinges. After tossing my bag
down on the bench, I pull my apron off its hook and throw it over my head, all
in one swift motion. I slide my feet out of the flats I wore to school that day
while opening the flap of my bag and pulling out my sneakers. I sit down and take
a second to massage my toes gently, grateful to take off the hard-soled shoes.
    Mom brought this particular pair of flats home last weekend as a
spontaneous gift, and I wanted to please her by wearing them. They are a
beautiful navy blue with a similarly toned jewel at the front, and they elevate
my simple combo of jeans and long-sleeved tee. The shoes allow me to look more
put together without actually challenging myself and exerting any extra effort.
At least that was Genna’s expert assessment when she noticed them this morning.
Unfortunately, they still have a lot of breaking in to do, and spending eight
hours in them today at school was not the smartest choice.
    I reach back into my bag and pull out a pair of thick socks. As soon
as I slide the socks on my feet, I feel instant relief. The simple joys of
cotton. As I relish in the feeling, I hear Betsy talking in the main room and
smile to myself.
    “Nutty lady is talking to herself again. If only I had something to be
so excited about.” Halfway through, I realize the irony that I, too, am now
talking to myself and zip my lips. I wedge my feet into my sneakers, double-knot
the laces, and head back out the door. As soon as I get past the travel
section, I am surprised to see that she is not, in fact, alone.
    I recognize the guy Betsy is talking to from school. He is a couple of
years older than me and, if