I mull that over. “So…”
“So it wouldn’t stop me from coming over after and spending the night anytime you want me to. Or you’re always welcome to stay at my place.”
“Your uncle wouldn’t mind?”
“No,” Trevor says simply.
“But we wouldn’t be able to…you know.”
Trevor lifts an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “We could practice keeping you quiet. A pillow between your teeth maybe? A ball gag?”
I stare at him, mouth ajar. “Excuse you. I’m notthatloud.”
He chuckles. “You are. Don’t worry. It’s a compliment.”
I can’thelp but scoff, feeling like I should be insulted, even if I can’t quite figure out why. “You’re not that…”
I trail off, realizing I can’t finish my sentence with the wordgoodas intended. Because yes, he’s that fucking good, much to my ire.
Trevor waits patiently. “Go ahead. Finish your sentence.”
“You know what? I don’t need to. Maybe next time,you’llbe the loud one.”
“Oh, Red. I very much invite you to make good on that threat.”
I flush, cursing the way I can feel my skin heating. Spotting a familiar cover in the aisle we turned down, I pluck the book free and slap it against Trevor’s chest. “Here. Bone up on your nature-related poetry.”
Trevor turns the book over, an eyebrow lifting. “Leaves of Grass? You didn’t like my poem about your—”
“Ah-ah,” I cut in, slapping my hand over Trevor’s mouth before he can utter the wordasshole. He kisses my palm, and I reluctantly reclaim my hand. “Not in polite company, you heathen.”
“You’re not that polite,” he shoots back. Before I can utter a useless protest, he goes on. “And I’ve already read this.”
“Of course you have. You know Whitman. Thoreau. Emerson. Are there any poets you’re not familiar with?”
“Ah, I’m not giving myself up that easily, Red. You’ll have to best me on your own merits.”
I scowl, even as I grudgingly admire Trevor’s expansive knowledge of one of my favorite subjects.
When I reach for the book to return it to the shelf, Trevor spins me around, his front lining my back. My heart thumps as his arms come around me in a loose hold, his voice near my ear. “‘I exist as I am, that is enough.’”
My swallow is more than a little heavy at the verse recited from the book in Trevor’s hand. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I’ll let you decide that for yourself.”
With that, Trevor places a quick kiss on the side of my head and lets me go. He sets the book of poems back on the shelf before rearranging another couple that got put away out of order. I hate how attractive I find that, even though I don’t hate it at all.
Trevor and I spend a good hour browsing books, both poetry and general fiction alike. Most of my reading lately has been school-related. Classics, poems, textbooks. So I pick out a mystery by an author I’ve enjoyed in the past, determined not to lose my love of reading purely for pleasure.
Trevor, I notice, circles back to a section of William Shakespeare more than once. When I find him eyeingThe Sonnetsfor the third time, I pluck it from the shelf.
“Have you read this one?” I ask. It’s a modern reprint, of course, but the hardcover design is nice. Elegant, almost.
Trevor nods. “I have, but I don’t own it.”
“Could I buy it for you?”
He eyes me for a moment, not immediately refusing but looking as if he’s thinking about it.
