Sophie looks… not exactly uneasy, but definitely not comfortable talking about a book club.
Because—yeah. She’s a twenty-five-year-old single woman. Who likes to sit around and read books with other people, who are probably twice her age with no other social life other than the kind that revolves around books.
“We meet once a month,” she says. “There’s six of us, and I’ve asked the king if they can come here, because…” She points to her foot.
“When is this club of books meeting?”
She shifts her gaze away from mine. “Tomorrow night.”
“Were you planning on inviting me?”
She chokes on a laugh. “I was not.”
“Why? Don’t think I’d have fun?”
“I’m not one for the written word,” she echoes my earlier statement. “So, no. I didn’t think it would be something you’d be interested in. You’re…you, and the book club people are…” Sophie trails off, looking very uncomfortable.
Which is why I keep at it. “You don’t think they’d like me?”
“I think they’d like you fine. They’re very nice.”
“And I’m not.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t nice.” She laughs awkwardly.
“But that’s what you were thinking.”
“How can you tell what I’m thinking?”
I speak without thinking. “You scrunch up your nose when you think you’re going to say something to offend the person,” I say. “You bite your lip when you try not to laugh. Your eyes shine when you dolaugh. It’s…”
I trail off.Pretty,I was going to say, but maybe that’s too much.
From the amazement on Sophie’s face, itistoo much. “I can tell what you’re thinking,” I finish. Because they way the amazement fades to a softness suggests she’s… thinking… things. Feeling things.
“I didn’t know that,” she whispers.
“What book are you reading this month?” I need to stop Sophie looking at me the way she is. Because it’s makingmefeel things... things I’m not used to. “The Stand?”
“This month, we’re reading a romance,” she admits.
“So you do read romance,” I crow.
“Of course I do. But you…” She looks uncomfortable, and maybe if I were a nicer person, I’d let her off the hook.
But I’m a selfish person, and I want to find out more about this. “What’s the book called?” I demand.
“Great Big Beautiful Life. By Emily Henry. It’s—”
“I saw it at the bookstore,” I say proudly. The orange cover drew me in, and I thought she’d like it. There’s a swell of pride that I was right.
“If you’re here, you can stop by,” she concedes. “But honestly, I can’t see it being your thing.”
She’s right; it’s so not my thing. But it is Sophie’s.
Sophie, who belongs to a book club. “Maybe,” I concede, like the whole thing was her idea. “Maybe I’ll stop by.”
She blinks, and I know she’s confused about the whole thing. But so am I, and I don’t know how to unconfuse things.
