Even though she was certain she had never done the former.
Why would she have cared?
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
But damn it, shedidcare when she saw the books.
There was a big jumble of them scattered over the backseat, most of them obviously well-read and much loved. Even in this semi-darkness, she could make out the cracked spines and the curling pages. One of them was so worn, she could barely read the title—though in truth, she didn’t need to see it to know.
She recognized the picture on the cover.
That swirling purple dress; the rearing horse.
Some long-haired guy holding his sword in a suggestive way.
It was a romance novel.All of themwere romance novels.Isaac Morales, guy who probably knew how to kill someone with one blow,read romance novels. Though still, she couldn’t quite believe it. She found herself turning in her seat, straining to get a better view. And even after she read one of the titles clearly—The Scoundrel and the Lady—it wouldn’t sink in. Not until she realized he was watching her, with a look on his face best described asfuck.In fact, it was so obviouslyfuck,she was kind of amazed by it.
He didn’t usually let his expressions show whatever he was thinking.
But, for one brief moment, they weren’t tied down. Something had cut them loose.
She even saw a flash of regret cross his features—then all at once, she understood.
“Sorry,” she said.“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You weren’t prying. I invited you in.”
“Yeah, but you invited me so I could get home. Not so my googly eyes could roam all over the secret details of your private inner life.”
“I have no private inner life.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“My mind is a dull blank.”
“That definitely seems true to me.”
“There’s nothing to share.”
“I just bet there isn’t.”
She didn’t mean that last one. It leant too much towards teasing, even though she really didn’t want to tease him about this. Things were already going in weird directions—what she needed was to put on the brakes. To pull back before she felt dizzy again or accidentally started flirting, or both of them descended into that awkwardness she barely understood.
But, apparently, he didn’t entirely agree.
His next words weren’t a subject change.
“God, you’re good at this,” he said.
And lord help her—she had to ask.
“Good at what?”
“Making me want to share things.”
“But all I did was agree that there was nothingtoshare.”
“Exactly. Now, all I can think of is how little I want you to believe that.”
