“But I dropped them.”
“I’ll bend the rules for today. Next time I show no mercy.”
She giggles and goes all serious. “Yes, sensei.”
I’m craving more of her light, so I let her have all the books that fell from her pile during the challenge as well, and damn, it’s worth it. Seeing that dimple pop when she notices the books in my hand makes me feel like a champion.
I borrow a basket and carry the books to the truck. Once safely packed, we set off back to hers.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” she asks. “I was thinking we could order a pizza,” she says, pulling out her phone to search for a place.
“I’d love to. And you know what they say about pizza, right?” I ask, flicking my eyes over to her for just a second before they’re back on the road.
“It’s best shared with friends, unless said friend’s choice of pizza topping is pineapple or anchovies. Then you ditch the friend and the pizza.”
I grin. “Always knew I liked you, Callahan. You’re, of course, correct, but I was gonna say there’s nothing better than the homemade kind.”
“Oh, that sounds good,” she says, sighing. “I’ll put my books away and help.”
“I think I’d prefer it if you read one of your new books to me. I like hearing you talk about them. It’s sexy.”
She chokes on a laugh and shakes her head.
“Your love for books—where does it come from?”
“My dad,” she answers.
“Leon?” I ask, flicking on my blinker to turn onto her street.
She shakes her head, and I know she’s talking about her biological dad.
“Will you tell me about him?”
She’s quiet for a moment as if she’s thinking about what to tell me.
“He worked in publishing,” she says, staring into her hands. “Every few months, he’d come home with a brand-new book that hadn’t hit the shelves yet. He’d wrap it up with little gifts—highlighters, stickers, bookmarks. I’d write a book report on it for him with my new nicknacks and we’d sit together by the fire and just talk. It was our thing. Our secret book club. Our bonding time.” Her voice is small. I pull up in the vacant spot outside her door and kill the engine.
“How’d he die?”
“I don’t want to talk about it or have it bring up things about your own dad.”
“I don’t scare easy, Erin. You can tell me anything.”
“Some other time, then.”
“Promise?” I ask her.
“Probably not.”
Her candidness catches me off guard, but it only stokes the fire of my need to know more.
I climb out of my truck and grab her stack of books, following behind her. She unlocks her door, holding it open for me as we walk in.
Once her books are set to the side and ready for her to put away, I start dinner.
I lean against the counter, watching her rearrange shelves, filling small gaps as she sits cross-legged on the floor, sorting through her new haul looking perfectly content and at peace with herself and the world.
I hate myself for still wanting to push and learn what it is about her family that makes her retreat into that shell of hers, but the idea of being next to her and comforting her while she’s vulnerable awakens a need in me.
