Davis stared at the screen. “Do you want it to be him?”
I looked away. “No. But I would like to know if he’s the one using the Historically_Bookish handle. That mystery is killing me.”
“Why?”
My eyes met his again, and I willed him to confess he was my friend and admirer. “Because Historically_Bookish is important to me. I hate that I don’t know who they are. Plus, whoever wrote those letters didn’t take the task lightly. Maybe they’re the kind of person who’d spend just as much time and effort on all the things that matter.”
A deadpan expression crossed his handsome face, and a shadow of doubt shaded my little flame of hope. “I bet the dexterity and small motor skills used in calligraphy are important in tying complicated knots—around your wrists—so he can keep you in his mother’s basement.”
I wadded a paper napkin and threw it at his face. “I’ll bet he’s incredibly smart.”
“That only means the cops will never find you.”
I hopped onto my feet and carried our plates and napkins to the kitchen, laughing and wiping tears onto my sleeve. “You’re ridiculous.”
Davis collected an armload of our bottles and followed.
I tossed the trash and washed my hands while he lined the empties on the counter for recycling. When I turned back, he was watching me intently. “Seriously, I like the way his letters make me feel,” I admittedsoftly. “I know I came here to swear off love, but that’s not who I am. I want to believe romance is alive and anything is possible.”
Davis leaned in my direction, and his soft gray gaze lowered to my lips. He raised a hand gently to my face, and I gripped the counter beside us in case I swooned. “Your hair is—”
I let my eyes fall shut as he swept his thumb against the corner of my mouth, dislodging a piece of hair that had adhered to my skin on dried hot sauce. “Ugh.” My lids jerked open. “Oh, gross.” I cringed and reeled back. “I’ve been sitting in there with food on my face?”
Why was my life like this?
Davis caught me by one wrist, his lips parted in amusement. “It’s just hot sauce.”
I stilled, and our breath mingled. The familiar electric charge of his nearness swept through me, along with memories of his kiss.
“Emma,” he whispered. “I think—”
Violet barked and broke the spell. Her nails danced merrily across the kitchen floor, and a low, desperate howl raised the rafters.
Davis released me, turning swiftly to quiet his sweet dog.
Violet stood on hind legs at the back door, whimpering and whining as I gathered my marbles and flipped the light switch, bathing the yard in a burst of light.
A pack of little fuzzy shadows bounced into the cover of trees beyond.
From the sitting room, a sports announcer called, “Touchdown, Huskies!”
Davis’s disappointed sigh matched mine.
Our Minutemen weren’t the only ones having a complicated night.
On my front porch, just after midnight, I couldn’t stop myself from hugging Davis goodbye. To my delight, he set his chin atop my head and held me gently for one precious moment. Then he whispered, “I hope your secret admirer is exactly who you want him to be,” and I felt my eyes sting with tears.
Because wasn’t that the same as saying he had no idea who it was?
I arrived early at Village Books the next day, eager to take a slow, contemplative look at all the men in my class—and one, specifically, who wasn’t a fellow student but worked the cash register. I sat at the long table, facing the store and front door.
“You’re lost in thought,” Daisy said, sliding onto the seat beside mine. She set a disposable cup on the table, a curl of sweet-scented steam rising from the top.
I forced a smile, tuning into the moment at hand. “Just thinking about what to write,” I fibbed. “How about you? Do you have a plan for today?”
“I’m writing to my professor to beg for a second chance on my last written assignment,” she said. “I really blew it, and my academic scholarships turn to dust if my grades drop.”
“I’m sorry.” I set a hand on her shoulder, and she tipped her head to lean on it briefly.
