“Yes, now. You can’t just casually mention you have a list and then not share. That’s illegal.”
“Pretty sure it’s not,” I start, then trail off when she gives me the look. The one that used to undo me in high school and apparently still does. “Fine,” I say, dragging my hand slowly up and down her back in thought. “Your laugh. The way you snort when something actually gets you.”
She groans. “Oh my God, start with something flattering.”
“It is flattering,” I protest. “It means you’re not faking it.”
She pokes my side. “Next.”
“The way you talk about books like they’re people,” I say, more serious now. “Like they have feelings you’re worried about hurting.”
Her expression softens. “That’s just… basic empathy.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I like it. I like that you get defensive on behalf of fictional characters.”
She makes a thoughtful noise. “Okay, I’ll allow that one.”
“I like that you can’t stand when people dog-ear pages, but you’ll write in your own books like you’re having a conversation with them,” I say. “And how you always pretend you don’t care about the tourists’ opinions, but you light up when they come back from vacation and tell you your recs made their trip.”
She buries her face in my chest. “Stop, I’m actually going to cry.”
“I like that you care enough to cry,” I say, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “That you didn’t harden up just because life gave you reasons to.”
Her shoulders shake slightly under my hand. “Crew,” she whispers.
“And I like that you invited me to stay tonight,” I add. “That you chose me.”
She lifts her head again, tears bright in her eyes, but there’s a stubborn tilt to her chin. “I’ll probably need remindersthat I’m allowed to keep choosing you,” she warns. “Years of training myself not to… it doesn’t undo overnight.”
“I have nothing but time,” I say. “I can run the drills with you as long as it takes.”
She laughs wetly. “Of course, you turned it back into sports.”
“It’s my thing,” I say. “You’re stuck with a guy whose whole personality is metaphors about fourth quarters and overtime.”
She studies me for a long moment, then reaches up and brushes her fingers along my jaw. “There are worse fates,” she says softly. “I’ve read about all of them.”
I thread our fingers together over my chest. The simple weight of her hand in mine feels more intimate in some ways than anything we did a few minutes ago.
Outside, a particularly strong gust hits the building, making the windows rattle and the bed frame creak.
Bailey tenses instinctively. I tighten my hold on her.
“Hey,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” she says after a beat, relaxing again by degrees. “My logical brain knows the shop has survived storms way worse than this. My anxiety brain, however, is convinced we’re about to be airlifted into Oz.”
“If we wake up in Oz,” I say, “you’re in charge of directions. I’ll just follow you around and pretend I know what’s going on.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not giving you control of the yellow brick road after you tried to shortcut the scenic route tonight.”
I raise a brow. “Shortcut?”
She smirks. “You were ready to sprint for the end zone, Wright. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“I was ready to respond to the play you were calling,” I correct, tapping her nose lightly. “You moved first.”
She flushes, but there’s pride in it. “Yeah,” she says. “I did.”
