“And how old is that?”
“Forty-seven.”
She looks away, thinking through her response. “Forty-seven isn’t that old.”
“Thank you. I needed that ego boost.”
Ego boost?
Someone tape my mouth shut before I say something really dumb.
Too late.
She eyes me skeptically but playfully. “For some reason, I have a feeling you didn’t.”
Called out. I’m not usually forward or outgoing, but I know how to be. Growing up in the Upper East Side, I had to know. It was expected of me. Confidence was my shield. I faked it so much that it became a part of me. I may be quiet, but I’m comfortable with who I am, even if I was always shamed for it inside the walls of my childhood home.
Being bisexual in high society was not an option. My parents made me suppress that side of myself. But Hunter and Rory have never judged me for it, giving me space to truly be who I am. I’m sure my parents are rolling over in their graves now.
Removing my coat, I set it aside and turn toward Savannah. “So, tell me. What do I need to know about romance novels?”
“Well, in most books, the setup is relatively the same. First, you meet the characters. Then, it’s the meet cute?—”
“Is that a real thing?” I interrupt. “Ameet cute. That sounds made up.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Seriously. What’s a meet cute?”
“You know how couples are always asked how they met?”
I nod my head.
“A meet cute is the story of how they met. Depending on subgenre and author and a million other factors, sometimes the meet cute is funny, or it could be suspenseful or whatever.”
My head tilts. “So, would this be our meet cute? A man finds an intriguing woman in the romance section of the Brooklyn Heights Library, and he gets a lesson on romance novels from her.”
She tries to hide her smile, but there’s no hiding from me. “That is a statement you could make, yes. But maybe we should be friends first.”
“Done. Where do I fill out an application?” My joke lands, making her laugh again, but I’m serious. I’ll do whatever is necessary to be close to this woman.
“No need. You already have my seal of approval, Luke.”
The way she says my name stirs something in me.
I want her to say my name over and over. I want her to say it when she laughs, when she cries, and when she’s screaming out in ecstasy. I want it all.
“Friends, it is.” I scoot closer, eliminating the space between us. She doesn’t flinch or become offended. Savannah seems to sink into the closeness. “Can I ask a question?”
“You just did,” she quips.
“Don’t be a brat, Trouble,” I tease back and give a light tug on a lock of her hair.
She pretends to be scolded and nods her head for me to continue.
“Why romance books? You could escape reality in the pages of historical fiction, fantasy, or mysteries. There are other options. What makes romance your drug of choice?”
“You’re asking a lot.” She eyes me as if I asked her if she prefers to be spanked or tied up.
