“There’s this sweet old lady in our building called Agnes, and she told me he’s divorced. She also said he’s a lovely man, even though I’ve never seen it.”
Geoff raises his eyebrows and I shrug again.
“Maybe he’s one of those guys who’s not normally nice, but is nice to little old ladies.”
Geoff practically melts. “That’s still kind of endearing.”
“I guess.” I turn and we wander back down the aisle. “But would it hurt him to be kind to others, too?”
“Did she say anything about the divorce?” Geoff inquires as he steps back behind the register. “Like maybe it turns out he’s gay?”
I smother a smile. “No. She didn’touthim to me, Geoff.”
“Oh well. There’s still hope.”
I tuck the book inside my bag and Geoff gives me a funny smile.
“He is a dark horse, this Sexy Michael. A writer who is nice to little old ladies, but not to young, cute ones.”
I laugh as I head out the door and turn towards home. Geoff’s words linger in my head, and for the first time, I start to wonder if maybe I’ve misread Michael.
14
Istay up most of the night reading Michael’s book. I’m not lying when I say I can’t put it down. I don’t know what the customer back home was carrying on about. It’s so good. And I’m not just saying that because I sort of like him.
Because I think I do like him.
Maybe.
I mean, beyond the physical attraction, which is undeniable. But reading his book, I realize he’s nothing like I thought. The book is about a lot more than his time on the trail; it’s about him and his life. He’s funny and caring and really smart. He’s passionate about nature and travel and history, about his son, and he was completely ripped apart by his divorce, which surprises me. In person, he’s come across as so rude and cynical, but I wonder if he’s still just dealing with the fallout of his marriage. He doesn’t go into any detail about what happened—hell, he doesn’t even name his ex-wife—but it’s clear that it’s scarred him. That’s the reason he gives for going to walk the trail in the first place.
And he is a brilliant writer. He writes with such openness and honesty and emotion. More than once I’m moved to tears by his writing.
I owe him a massive apology. I can’t believe I told him this book was bad.
I read for hours, curled up with Stevie. Eventually, I fall asleep, Michael’s book in bed with me. I’m not sure what time it is that I doze off, but when I wake there’s sun coming in through the living room windows and Cat is in the kitchen, making coffee. I was so engrossed in the book I didn’t even close the curtains to my nook last night.
“Morning,” Cat calls from the kitchen. She wanders over to my bed with a travel coffee cup in her hand, and pats Stevie on the head. “She looks so cozy. Do you mind if I leave her here with you today?”
I yawn and sit up on my elbows. I don’t have work today. I was planning to stay in and keep reading Michael’s book, maybe write later. It will be nice to have Stevie’s warm little body for company.
“Sure.” I reach over to scratch behind her ear.
“Thanks. Just take her out in a few hours, then again later.”
I nod, snuggling back under the covers. I doze off again as I hear the door click shut behind Cat.
A few hours later, I wake and take Stevie out for a walk to get a coffee. When I get back to the apartment, I settle onto the sofa to continue with Michael’s book, Stevie stretched out beside me. It only takes me another hour before I finish it. The first thing I want to do after that is go online and see what else he’s written, but when I glance up I notice Stevie is gone.
I peel myself from the sofa and stretch, scanning the room for her. Maybe she needs to go out again. But she’s not over by the door. Instead, her bum is up in the air wiggling, her face buried in my bag.
“Stevie!”
I pull her out of my bag, but she’s got my EpiPen in her mouth like it’s a chew toy.
“Stevie, no!”
I’m not sure what will happen to her if she breaks and ingests it, but I’m sure it won’t be good. I manage to carefully wrestle it from her tiny jaws and put it back in my bag, placing it up on the counter out of her reach.
