He follows my gaze and grunts to the affirmative.
What kind of criminal mastermind listens to Fleetwood Mac while snowed into a mountain cabin?
Then my gaze lands on the bookshelf nearest the couch. I find what I’d expect.
Science fiction. Westerns. History.
An interesting number of astronomy books.
And—I lean forward slightly.
No. Way.
There’s a worn paperback copy ofPride and Prejudicewedged between Dune and some giant survival guide.
I stare at it. Then toward Troy. Then back at the book. This man continues to make less and less sense.
“Something wrong?” he asks without turning around.
“How exactly does a man with rumored ties to organized crime end up owning Jane Austen?”
Troy glances over his shoulder. “It’s a good book. Whether or not you’re into organized crime. Or a murder.”
I choke slightly on air. Did he make another joke? Or was it a confession?
He returns his attention to the stove while my brain short-circuits.
Okay, maybe the cold caused permanent neurological damage because there is no universe where Terrible Troy Taylor casually admits to enjoying Jane Austen before breakfast.
“You’ve read it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Yes.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.The sound slips out before I can stop it. The whole thing is just so unexpected. I have to laugh.
For a split second, Troy goes completely still. I wonder how long it’s been since someone laughed around him instead of whispering about him.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
“So,” I say, trying to recover our earlier mood, “big Mr. Darcy fan?”
Troy slides a plate onto the table in front of me.
Thick slices of cinnamon french toast dusted with powdered sugar stare back at me. Beside them sits a small bowl of warm maple butter.
I blink up at him. “You made french toast?”
“You said you were hungry,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“Most terrifying outlaw ever,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches again.
I pick up my coffee again and take another sip. And nearly moan. Again.
