He flips to the first page. His gaze drifts over the words before he closes it and hands it back. “Or you could read it to me.”
That catches me off guard. “Seriously?”
He nods. “You brought it. Might as well commit.”
I stare at him for a long second, then open the book.
“Chapter one,”I start. “1801. I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbor that I shall be troubled with.”
He chuckles. “Sounds familiar.”
Lorenzo stands, then does something that takes me completely by surprise. He plops down on the bench next to me.
“You haven’t even met my neighbors.”
“I meant you.” He laughs. The sound does crazy things to my belly, but rather than focus on that, I playfully roll my eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Keep reading.”
So I do.
We sit there for almost an hour. Each word hangs in the air, heavy and weighted. The longer I read, the closer he gets, and at some point, he’s right beside me. Only a breath away. Our bodies almost touch, and I want desperately to cross the space.
I don’t, though. I read. He listens.
Occasionally, he asks questions. Most are dry and sarcastic. “Why is everyone in this book miserable?” or “Has anyone ever made a good decision on the moors?”
It’s easy. Too easy. And I like it. Which is probably why I start to feel something close to nervous. Not because I don’t know what I’m doing. But because, for once, I don’t care. I’m playing with fire being here with Lorenzo, but I don’t care.
“Why did you come here today?” His voice is soft, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.
I look up from the book and at him. “Here?”
“The boathouse that is clearly abandoned, as you pointed out earlier.”
I consider what to say. To be honest? Or not? I opt for a half-truth.
“Because this place is real. And you’re not boring.” I don’t say I followed him, but it’s implied.
He snorts, having the courtesy of not calling me out. “High praise from the glass tower.”
“Don’t mock me, Lorenzo.”
“I’m not.” He looks at me. Really looks. “I like that you read books and talk back and don’t flinch when someone tells you no.”
“Is that a compliment?”
He shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. You ever think we’re just the background to someone else’s story?” I ask.
“Everyday. Especially when I’m working in the kitchen,” he says. “But otherwise, when I’m not in this house, I’m the main character.”
“Of course you are.”
He smirks. “So are you, Little Bird.”
“You keep calling me that like you think it’s charming.”
“Not charming.” He lifts his brows. “But true.”
