“Brandon Sanderson.” I beam at him and his continued interest in books. If I leave nothing else in this little town, I want to assure I leave my love of books.
“What about your book?” He grabs the paperback I hand him, wrapping his hands around the cover as though it’s precious. Which, in fact, it is.
Also, these books need bookmarks. I make a mental note to get some printed. Some heathen dog-eared the pages.
“My what now?”
“Your book,” he repeats lightly, tapping me on the shoulder with the book.
I know he’s trying to ask me about the main reason I started here, but I’m not ready to tell him about the sketches hidden in the desk or the simple plot line I developed on the fly.
What I will do is discuss the tap he just gave me. “Did you just bro tap me?”
“What?” He rears back as though I’ve slapped him.
“You bro tapped me with that book.” I pat the paperback as though it’s offended and shush it like a baby.
“I did no such thing.” He backs away, a flush blooming on his cheeks.
“Oh, you did.” I advance on him.
“Nope, wasn’t me.” A sliver of that grumpy bear takes over his personality, and a wrinkle deepens between his brows. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“Oh, you know.” I stalk him like prey. “It’s a college frat boy move.”
“Never went to college.”
“Tech school counts.”
He tumbles back into my return cart, knocking a few books off in the process. I continue to advance on him. I don’t even know what I’ll do when I catch him, probably smack him back with the book.
No, I’d never abuse a book like that.
“Birdie,” he warns.
“Arlo.” I launch myself at him.
But because it’s me and I’m more graceful than a seasoned athlete trying ballet for the first time, I crash into him and take us both down to the floor, laughter spilling from my lungs, making me greedy for more.
Like a professional, Arlo rolls us, sliding his hand under my head so I don’t hit it again.
The book lies forgotten on the carpet.
My laughter dies as Arlo looks down at me as though I’m precious, as though I’m something—no, someone to cherish and adore. As though I’m worthy of love.
My hands rest against his chest, my breath bursting free of the confines of my lungs. I don’t know if I want to pull him closer or push him away.
A bit of both, I decide.
“Arlo.” I watch as he swallows, his throat working as he holds himself above me. Not an ounce of his body touches me, but I feel him everywhere.
In the space between, in the air I breathe, and in the warmth that wafts off of him. I inhale his spice and soak up his presence, committing his feel and essence to memory.
“Birdie.” His eyes flutter between mine, and in them, desire is reflected back at me. Tension builds slowly between us.
Will they?
Won’t they?
