My back was to him as I searched the aisle for books I could suggest for him. We had been here for nearly 30 minutes and hadn’t been able to pick much. So far there was only one book in our cart.
“What happened?” he suddenly asked, so softly I barely heard it.
“What?” I turned to look at him.
“To your favourite coffee shop.”
“Oh.” The thought alone gave me slight jitters. “A murder.” I shrugged like that news didn’t give me nightmares for days. Because the murder happened a few minutes after Kenzo and I left there.
“Someone was murdered in cold blood.” My gaze trailed off, but I was staring at nothing in particular, just remembering what Fitz’s Lit and Brew used to look like. “The killer was…a ghost.”
He raised a perfectly arched snow-kissed brow. “Ghost?”
“No witnesses, no traces, no fingerprints. Nothing.” A heavy sigh broke out of my lips.
“Oh,” he murmured, a fall in his expression, and a gaze in his eyes I couldn’t quite place. “That must have terrified you.”
“Yeah,” I hummed. “It did. I didn’t leave the house for days.”
He didn’t say anything. He was looking at the book in his hand, but not with the zeal of someone interested. His mind was somewhere else.
“Don’t you want to try something outside your usual genre?” I held out the front of the book in my hand to him.
He lifted his gaze, his lips pressed into a firm line.
His reply was hesitant, too careful, too cautious. “Sure,”
“It’s alright if you don’t think you’ll like it,” I said, beaming at how gentle he was. I hoped he realised at the end of the day, it was his interest that mattered. He was the one that would read the book, not me.
“I actually haven’t read it,” I added. “But I have the soft copy. People say it’s great.”
“Reviews are subjective, though.” He pointed out, reaching for the book in my hand, his finger brushing against my skin as he pried it from my fingers.
My heart skipped, jolt of electricity sparking gently beneath my veins.
I cleared my throat when I caught myself being carried away by just an innocent touch. “True that,” I agreed, still dazed though. “How about we both grab a copy each and buddy-read?”
“Buddy-read?” He tested the word on his tongue like it was foreign. “I have never done that before.”
“Neither have I.” I reached for another copy of the book on the shelf, pulling it out. “If we like it, we can do it again. Might even become our thing.” I paused to gauge his expression. “How about that?”
“Whatever you say, Elizabeth,” he said the name again, and I thought it wasn’t because he needed to, but because he just…enjoyed saying it.
And I did too.
I liked everything he did or said.
I liked him.
???
Callan came with two soldiers. One that handled the wheel, and another that acted as the assigned guard.
When we finished shopping and went outside, the one behind the wheel was still there, waiting for the command to hit the road, while the bodyguard was by the trunk, ready to put the stuff we bought away.
The sun was already waning, casting long shadows across the parking lot. We spent about three hours there. That was the thing about bookstores. Time ran differently once you were inside. A minute in there could be hours outside.
“Well, those are books to last you a lifetime,” I casually said, chuckling softly as the soldier put the bags away.
