I ignore it.Or try to.
God knows I’m already in enough trouble with myself.
Behind me, Ariadne whispers loudly over the phone, “Oh my God, the tension.I can hear it.”
“Ariadne,” I hiss.
Alec hands the vinyl back with a care that borders on reverence.“That’s a rare find.”
“I know.”I swallow.“Makes me wonder what else is in these boxes.First letters, then vinyl, and—” I shrug not sure how to finish the sentence.
His gaze flicks to the pile behind me.“You’re opening them alone?”
“Unless you plan on helping,” I tease and then I press my lips together because that sounded almost close to flirting and I don’t flirt.
He stiffens like I just proposed marriage.“I—no.I mean?—”
“Oh, relax,” I say with a laugh.“I was kidding.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “I wasn’t prepared for this.”
“For what?”I ask.
He hesitates.
Then, suddenly he says, “You.”
That one single word settles somewhere I don’t dare examine.
Ariadne screams through the phone, “Hello?Did he just sayyou?”
I slap the phone mute before she combusts.
Alec runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed.“I mean—people.I hate ...not ...great.”He clears his throat, wincing.“I sound like an idiot.I’m not great with people.”
“It’s a skill,” I say.“You’ve probably been a hermit your whole life.”
He laughs—manic and nervous, like the noise startled him as much as it does me.
His eyes meet mine.
And for a breath, everything slows.
“I wish I had been a hermit all my life ...and slightly sheltered,” he confesses.
“The word sheltered is relative,” I reply.“Apparently, my family sheltered me from whatever my aunt left behind.Or maybe everyone lived in that bubble and I’m the one who has to burst it.Who knows?”
“What’s your aunt’s story?”he asks quietly.“The letters?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.“But I’m starting to think she wanted me to find them and break the news to everyone.”I force a small smile.“I should unpack.Figure out the key to my freedom.”
“You need help.”He gestures at the vinyl in my hand.“I know some about music.”
“How much?”I narrow my gaze.“Like you listen to the radio every day, or your parents curated your taste level?”
He shrugs.“I think my parents died when I was a baby—or they abandoned me.Who knows?”
I freeze.
