Laura Taylor Namey - The Library of Lost Things

Shell read a thousand happy endings before she finds her own.

From the moment she first learned to read, literary genius Darcy Wells has spent most of her time living in the worlds of her books. There, she can avoid the crushing reality of her mothers hoarding and pretend her life is simply ordinary. But when a new property manager becomes more active in the upkeep of their apartment complex, the only home Darcy has ever known outside of her books suddenly hangs in the balance.

While Darcy is struggling to survive beneath the weight of her mothers compulsive shopping, Asher Fleet, a former teen pilot with an unexpectedly shattered future, walks into the bookstore where she works...and straight into her heart. For the first time in her life, Darcy cant seem to find the right words. Fairy tales are one thing, but real love makes her want to hide inside her carefully constructed ink-and-paper bomb shelter.

Still, after spending her whole life keeping people out, something about Asher makes Darcy want to open up. But securing her own happily-ever-after will mean shell need to stop hiding and start living her own trutheven if its messy.

Praise for The Library of Lost Things

Watch out or youll lose your heart in this library! Laugh and cry and look up words of the day with your new favorite heroine, Darcy, as she finds first love. This story will give you all the feels!

Kelly deVos, author of Fat Girl on a Plane

A poignant tale about a young woman with a book-shaped heart who finds the courage to write her own story.

Nancy Richardson Fischer, author of The Speed of Falling Objects

THE LIBRARY OF LOST THINGS

Laura Taylor Namey

www.harlequinbooks.com.au

LAURA TAYLOR NAMEY is a Cuban-American Californian who can usually be found haunting her favorite coffee shops, drooling over leather jackets and wishing she was in London or Paris. She lives in San Diego with her husband, two superstar children and her beloved miniature schnauzer/muse. The Library of Lost Things is her first novel.

www.LauraTaylorNamey.com

Not just for Edward. But for that first, perfect look on his face when I said, Ive decided to write a book.

Contents

...let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

Id read enough stories to know how they worked. You had your faraway settings and swoonworthy charactersextra points for tossing in a manic-pixie dream girl or stubbly faced bad boy. Great books give us spine-tingling plots or twists that reach right into your lungs and snatch your next breath. I knew about those; I knew about stories. Enough to realize I was sitting in the middle of one and already hated the ending.

Why does San Diego insist on forgetting Septembers supposed to be chilly? my best friend, Marisol, asked. Fall means boots and scarves and sweaters, not tank tops. Ugh. Fix it.

Just when Im all out of weather wands and genie lamps. There was no weight in my words. I watched the painters taping and spraying my apartment building with new storm-gray paint.

Darcy?

I blinked myself back to her, smiling, turning worries into daydreams. And my friend was rightwe were wilting with the sweltering afternoon. Our shaded courtyard table belonged to all of the tenants at 316 Hoover Avenue, but Marisol and I spent more time here than anyone else. Three benches curved like melon slices around a pedestal base. We hogged them all, scattering our lives across the chipped mosaic tile top. We rarely hung out inside my apartment, whether my mother was home, or not.

I grabbed another handful of popcorn just as Mrs. Newsome appeared in the doorway to unit 15B with her white poodle, Peaches. Four oclock, I told Marisol, and tipped my chin.

On the dot and caftan-ready.

The entire complex could set their clocks by my neighbor and her floral print housedresses. As she locked the door, a bird swooped low across the landing. My eyes snapped to Peaches jerking away from her owner, dragging her leash toward the staircase.

Ill get her, Mrs. Newsome! I yelled, leaping up from the bench. I managed to swoop up Peaches from the bottom step.

Thank you, Darcy! my neighbor called. Ill be right down!

Dreamy-eyed, Marisol reached out and plunked the panting dog onto her lap.

Even a runaway pup didnt stop Mrs. Newsome from doing what she always did. Her feet crossed the landing and just as she reached my apartment, her steps slowed. Shed never want to be accused of snooping, but she still raised the brim of her straw hat to peer into my units front window. Maybe today the curtains wouldnt be so tightly drawn. Maybe this morning my mom had left a crack in the blinds.

Not today. Not ever.

I reached over and scratched Peaches behind one ear, knowing full well it wasnt just her owner who wondered about my apartment. About why we never propped open our door in the summer like the other tenants. Did they also wonder why our doorway looked different? Missing potted plants and a pretty welcome matbut rarely brown shipping boxes?

Marisol sighed, flicking one fingernail under the poodles white chin and snuggling her close. I need another dog. One like this little boo.

Right, I said on a short laugh, picturing her four siblings and two German shepherds. Your house is just begging for one more thing with a heartbeat.

Afternoon, girls. Mrs. Newsome flopped down next to us, helping herself to popcorn. I slid the bag closer. Have at it, lady.

Oh, isnt it wonderful? Mrs. Newsome gestured across the U-shaped courtyard to the units already covered with fresh, new gray. She grabbed Peaches from Marisol and set her on the ground. You stay now. And to us, Twenty-four years Ive lived with that putrid green. Who knows how many more if it wasnt for Mr. Hodge finally selling the building. Only one month and new paint already. Have you and your mama met Thomas?

Not yet. I fanned myself with my English notebook.

Well, hes awful nice. A go-getter, too. Not like that good-for-nothing nephew Mr. Hodge had managing for him. Barely showed his face around here. She munched on popcorn. Im sure Thomas will get around to your door soon. Thats just the kind of man he is. Personable. She looked left, then right, leaning in like her next words were top secret. He clued me in on some of the interior upgrades coming up. Besides the new railing after the paint, you know.

My face mustve signaled I didnt know because Mrs. Newsome quirked a brow. Didnt you read the flyer? Why, Thomas had them in the mailboxes early this morning. Like I said, a go-getter.

She waved goodbye, walking away with Peaches trotting after her, trapping me in a room where the air was slowly leaking out. Only I was outside, a planets worth of oxygen around me.

I dabbed sweaty fingers on my black tee and nudged Marisols binder. Didnt you hear her?

What, that chatterbox? I usually tune her out. Marisol tossed popcorn between her fuchsia-colored lips and returned to her math homework. I dunno. Blah, blah Thomas. Whatever, whatever railing.

During times like these, the differences between Marisols life and mine showed the strongest. While my half-Cuban, half-Mexican friend spent time pondering treadmill versus spin bike, or what shade of denim best matched her coral top, I had to worry about the fact that now we had an on-site apartment manager who was actually doing his job. Maybe too well for my mother and me and our upstairs unit with no welcome mat.