She tried to get a read on Luke. He looked like a poster child for the brooding leading man in a romantic movie. Scruff covered his granite cheeks. If he was experiencing disappointment, it didn’t show. His regard was level, steady. In fact, the only time he’d let his mask slip was during their kisses. At this moment, it was hard to believe that he’d revealed as much desire as he had.

She focused on Dakota. “I have reason to think that my father, who passed away in the fall, might have left something inside that book for me.”

“Oh dear. What do you think that might be?”

“I’m not sure. But it would mean a lot if I could get my hands on the book. Any ideas how I might be able to do that?”

Dakota pushed her lips to the side. “We send out a weekly e-newsletter to our patrons. There’s a News and Notes section at the bottom. We could add a note, asking people if they happen to have purchased that book at the sale. And, if so, to contact you.” She pointed toward the hall leading to the bathrooms. “We also have a community bulletin board. You’re welcome to pin a request for information there.”

“Thanks.”

Dakota picked up a pen and scribbled down information. “Here’s the book’s title and author. Here’s its ISBN number, publisher, and date of publication. It looks like it was first released fifteen years ago.” She lifted a binder from her desk drawer, flipped several pages, then began writing again. “Here’s a name, number, and email for the man who handles our weekly emails. And, just in case it’s useful . . .” She flipped several pages. “Here’s the name, number, and email of the president of our Friends of the Library group. It might be worth giving her a call. Who knows? It’s possible this book wasn’t purchased at the last few sales. In that case, I’m pretty sure they store the books that don’t sell and put them out again the next year.”

Finley accepted the piece of paper with thanks. After wishing Dakota and Loretta her very best, she and Luke returned to his truck.

He immediately turned the heater up and steered them toward Furry Tails. The cab of his truck had become something of a mobile treasure hunt headquarters.

“I’m going to start,” she said, “by calling the Friends of the Library president. If by some chance the book is still in their inventory, then there’ll be no need to post on the bulletin board or in the email newsletter.” With cold fingers, she typed in the phone number Dakota had given her.

When the president answered, Finley introduced herself.

“Finley! I know exactly who you are. I’m the owner of the Buttercup Boutique.”