“Does that mean you’re the good-looking one?” I can tell she’s trying to lighten the mood, so I try to play along.
“We’re identical,” I say.
She laughs. “Oh, you’re so screwed then. Maybe I picked the wrong brother.”
The wrong brother? Oh, absolutely not.
I take two steps closer and scoop her against me with such fierceness her breath whooshes out along my neck. “Maybe I should remind you why you picked me in the first place, Princess.”
Daphne doesn’t back down. No, instead she smirks as she loops her arms around my neck. “I think I could use a long, hard, thorough reminder. Multiple times. Please, Tris. Make me forget today.”
Oh, I will. By the time I’m done with her tonight, Daphne Fox will be so orgasm-drunk, she’ll forget her own damn name. Hell, maybe I can convince her that Sinclair would be a better last name for her someday.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAPHNE
Who knew arrangingbookshelves could be romantic? I’ve always loved shuffling around the mini library. The smell of paper and ink is comforting, and the thought of all the worlds at my fingertips is magic.
The shelves line two walls with a large set of bay windows, giving me the perfect view of the woods behind Tristan’s house. It’s like my own mountain getaway in here.
The wooden ladder rolls along both walls, and I’ve tested it out a few times this morning while unpacking my books, plus the ones Tristan’s been secretly buying for me. They were already on the shelves when I brought my moving boxes into the new library.
He’d also included his own, a few dozen random thrillers and memoirs, and a couple of self-help books, along with a bizarre collection of cookbooks. From weird 1950s Jello recipes with tuna and celery, to cookbooks about Middle Eastern vegan recipes.
“They’re a running joke with Tuck and me,” he admits. “My brother can’t cook to save his life, so every year, hebuys me the worst cookbook he can find, and I’ll make something from it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Ever have cheese and lime Jello salad? It still haunts my nightmares.”
Who knew my psycho had such a soft spot for books?
Tristan grabs the corner of some tape and yanks it off a box, his muscled forearms tensing and rippling from the effort. He plucks up a paranormal romance off the top and scans the book jacket. Tristan browsing my book trophies tickles like intellectual foreplay.
“Sounds like something that belongs in a horror novel,” I say as I shelve my tattered copy ofCarriewith the movie poster on the cover.
“I don’t read horror.” Tristan’s face scrunches in distaste. And who can blame him? The only books that should be banned are editions with the movie poster on the cover. Or permanent stickers. May whoever came up with that marketing idea rot in the seventh circle of hell.
“What do you have against horror? Especially with your… hobbies?”
He plucks a thriller from the shelf. “The world’s already a shitty place sometimes. The horrors of the real world consume enough mental space. I don’t want to read about more scary shit in books.”
“I’ve never heard someone put it that way.” I guess it makes sense. I read romance to escape, and I suppose I assumed that’s why people read horror too. So, it makes sense that someone wouldn’t want to read those books for the exact opposite reason. They’re not an escape but an exaggeration of how rough the world can be.
“So, what’s the last one you read?” he asks.
I pluck a dark romance from the middle shelf. “This one.” I hand it off to him, and the back blurb has him laughing. “It’s pretty funny. I listened to the audiobook, and I wanted to get a bookshelf trophy for it.”
Tristan points to the tagline. “What does the author mean by ‘ride the handle?’”
Oh, grasshopper. Tristan has much to learn if he’s brave enough to try to date a bookworm.
I mean, we’re living together now, so I guess he’s more than trying.
I take the book from him before he cracks it open and starts narrating the damn thing. Although the idea of Tristan reading my books aloud is a kink I didn’t know I had until now.
“The same handle you used,” I tease. “Did you think you were original?”
Tristan looks offended. “Yes,” he says with total sincerity.
Tip-toeing as much as I can, he obliges and meets me halfway to kiss me. He leans lower and sweeps his lips across mine, kissing away that sad puppy expression. His iced latte still lingers in his kiss, mingled with the taste of him. He presses me against the bookshelves as he pushes the rolling ladder away from us. Wooden shelves dig into my back and shoulders, but I don’t care. Tristan’s tongue explores me in the middle of my new library, and I could die happy here and now.
