“Yeah, because Hoyt did it and I thought it was funny, but I never knew what the story was. It’s because of the main character and her red hair, right?”
“Yeah. I used to like to pretend I was her. I’d paint freckles on my face and talk in a high-pitched voice. Hoyt would pretend to be Gilbert because I didn’t have anyone else to play with.” I laughed, but with a touch of sadness. “Then my mother died and he had to take care of me. He used to read me a few pages of this book every night, the same way she did.”
“I can understand why it’s so special to you.”
All at once, I was impatient for him to understand me, and I explained, “It is, but it’s not just because of what it means or the people I associate it with. Or because it made me realize I wanted to be a writer. It’s also the story itself. It’s Anne. I feel like we have things in common, and the things we don’t, I wish we did. I wish I could be more like her.”
Trey turned his head to me, and I felt he was looking inside me, seeing into my soul. I’d had that impression more and more frequently lately. He reached out and grabbed the book I was holding tight to my chest, and when he did, his fingertips brushed my cleavage. When he withdrew his hand, I felt a burning there.
“You know what? I think I will read it.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.” The oven’s buzzer sounded and he turned it off. “So wait—you just said you want to be a writer?”
I felt faint. “No.”
“Yeah. You literally just said it.”
“Okay, I said it, but I don’t feel like talking about that withyou.”
“Why not?”
Trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t require me to confess anything, I drew a blank, and I finally blurted out, “Just because.”
He grinned mischievously. His mischief was infectious. But he didn’t pry; he just took dinner from the oven while I watched him, and my stupid, innocent heart remained attentive to his voice, his every word and movement…those eyes that seemed to see every single thing I tried to hide from him.
We sat at the table, where Trey opened a bottle of Riesling he’d found in a small wine rack in one of the cabinets. It was exquisite, and a perfect pairing for the fish.
Setting my fork down and wiping my lips with my napkin, I said, “This morning, when you were talking with Sid about your job and the projects you had in mind…”
“Yeah?”
“I had no idea about all that. All those things you’re describing, they…they just…”
“Spit it out, Harper.”
My feet were dancing nervously under the table. “I just assumed you’d end up working for your dad, designing fancy apartment buildings and five-star hotels for oil billionaires. Piling up money so you could blow it on stupid shit like one of the Kardashians.”
He almost spit out his wine, and he laughed so loud it echoed through the room. “I’m really starting to worry about the image you have of me.”
“Well, don’t, because it’s starting to be obvious I have no idea who you are.”
“There’s something we can do about that,” Trey said, turning somber. “Ask me whatever you want. Shoot.”
I sat back and thought it over before beginning, “You’re workingon a project to raise money for First Nations communities.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve read a lot about the situation on the reservations. The folks living there just want the chance to preserve their culture and identity for future generations. The government does next to nothing for them. So someone else needs to step in.”
“And that someone is you?”
“Me and other people. I’m just one of many.”
“Why?”
