“What’s your favorite book?” I rise to my feet, perusing the titles. He has everything from Neil Gaiman, George R. R. Martin, and Tolkien, to George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Arthur C. Clarke. It makes sense that he loves fantasy and sci-fi if he spends his days creating video games. I wonder what his games are like.
“Do I have to pick just one?” he asks. But before I can answer, he adds, “I guess if I had to choose, I’d sayReady Player One. Oh, andEnder’s Gameis good, too.” He gives me a sheepish look. “You must think I’m a total geek.”
“I do.” A grin stretches across my face before I can stop it. “ButReady Player Oneis good.”
His eyebrows spring up. “Wait, you’ve read it? Or have you just seen the film?”
I raise a hand to my chest in offense and turn back to the shelves. “I’vereadit, thank you.”
“Really?”
I touch the book spines, debating how much I want to share. After the way I was teased in high school, there are some people I don’t share this side of myself with. But I’m sensing I won’t be judged here. My gaze lands on a small stuffed badger with a yellow scarf around its neck and my heart softens. Of course he’s a Hufflepuff, like me. I think back to the plane—to the way I felt a sense of connection to him, even as a complete stranger—and suddenly understand why. We’re cut from the same cloth.
“Yes,” I say, sinking back down onto the sofa. “AndReady Player Two. I’ve read most of the books on your shelves. ThatHarry Potterbox set is awesome.”
Luke gazes at me with a funny expression and I swallow hard. I’ve been so full of anger about this situation we find ourselves in, but the longer I sit here, talking to him about the things he loves—the thingsIlove—the more I let my guard down.
And that is not good.
“We should get on with the seating plan,” I mumble, peeling my gaze away.
“Yes. Right. Hold on.” He stands and wanders out of the room. I lean across the couch, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of his bedroom or—is there an office back there?—but all I can see is darkness beyond the door. He appears a moment later and I scramble back to where I was, hoping he didn’t notice.
“So, I was thinking we could use these.” He places a large piece of card down on the glass coffee table, along with a stack of Post-Its. Then he holds out a bunch of pens in different colors. “We could color code the plan, to make it easier. Like, blue for the wedding party, red for family, green for friends. That sort of thing.”
Oh, fuck. Is this gorgeous man talking to me about stationery and color-coding? Forget the plane;thisis the sexiest thing to ever happen to me. How am I going to make it through this in one piece?
Luke mistakes my silence for reluctance and his cheeks flush. “Sorry, that might be too much. Whatever you think.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” I gulp in some air, trying to stop the traitorous surge of heat flowing through me. I’ve always loved stationery but I had no idea it could be so…erotic. I guess when it’s in the right hands. My gaze drops to his big hands, clutching the pens, and my breathing quickens.
I shake my head, desperate to snap out of it. Grabbing my phone, I pull up Alex’s email with the guest-list, then hand it to Luke.
“Okay, so we know there are tables of eight, plus the bridal table.” He draws some circles on the card, and sticks some of the Post-Its down.
I try not to feel disappointed when he places Dena’s name on a table. At least she isn’t seated at the bridal table with us, but does shereallyhave to be there at all?
I reach for the Post-Its, feeling my irritation return. “You didn’t put my date down,” I snap.
He’s surprised for a second, then I catch a spark of amusement in his eyes. “You have a date to the wedding?”
“Yes,” I say forcefully, glaring at him.
“He’s not on the list.”
Shit. Of course he’s not on the list, he doesn’t bloody exist. But there’s no way I’m going to sit through this entire wedding while Luke feigns marital bliss without at least having a date on my arm.
“Well, leave a space for him.”
Luke narrows his eyes. “What’s his name?” His lips twitch as he watches me, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was enjoying this.
“I don’t know yet. But I will have a date, don’t you worry.”
He snorts, then writes “Harriet’s weirdo” on a Post-It and places it onto the board with a dramatic eye-roll.
That’s something for Harriet 2.0 to do: find a date to Alex’s wedding. Fast.
13
