April rain was happening. It drenched Los Angeles in silvery enchantment, and made the freeways shine glossy and slick, and drew the scents of ozone and ocean and glass-windowed buildings into the air. It dripped from eaves and overhangs, and flooded unprepared small side streets.
Wes generally liked rain, and felt that they did not get enough of it. He knew that Finn liked rain too, but then his boyfriend liked everything from pumpkin-shaped throw pillows to death-by-habanero chili, and therefore Finn was not a reliable judge.
It’d been Finn who’d said they could fit in a bookshop run before the promised weather arrived. Wes had tried to protest, but had given in.
He nearly said the I told you so now. Didn’t. Wouldn’t be productive.
The cozy neighborhood bookshop hugged them with shel
