Some shelves had newer books, books no doubt traded in for credits, books that were read two or three times and tossed aside.
And then some shelves had exactly the opposite—books that looked about ready to fall to dust if you so much as flipped a page. Some of them might’ve even beenhaunted.
I leafed through the textured pages of an old-but-never-written-in journal. It wasn’t lined, so it would be a nice sketch book, and it had a soft leather cover and a satiny ribbon to hold your place.
I wanted it.
Apparently Adam had the same idea, because when we met back up at the front register, he had a slightly larger journal in one hand and an old calligraphy pen in the other.
“I thought perhaps calligraphy might be fun for you to try?” He opened the hard case to show me the pen and its nib and my eyes widened. It looked like something out of the movies. “We’ll find some ink at the craft store the next time we go,” he assured me.
After paying, we tossed the bags in the backseat of the car and stopped to get some lunch. Nothing fancy, just burgers and cheese curds, which were amazingly crispy and gooey. Then Adam drove us to a secluded park, near a riverbank.
“What’s this?” I asked, peering out the window. The scenery outside was pretty, though the day itself was overcast and cloudy and a bit windy, tossing leaves around in the breeze.
“Thought we could go for a walk,” Adam said with a shrug, and I smiled. It was such a simple thing, but out here, away from everyone? He didn’t have to wear his goofy disguise. We could just be us.
We got out of the car and, hand in hand, walked together along the riverside. My boots scuffed along the grass. Every now and then, I could’ve sworn I could see fish swimming in the river, beneath the rippling surface, but then they were gone, like quicksilver.
We chatted about things, and the subject of Adam’s father came up. I knew it would; it was like a festering wound, seeping around the edges of a scab, just waiting to burst with infection.
He told me about what his father had said, the other day when he went to meet him. About how he wanted Adam to marry wealthy to secure his place in the company, despite Adam’s wishes. It made me ache for Adam—and, selfishly, for me too.
“It’s not fair,” he murmured on a sigh. “No woman Father would ever set me up with would be happy with a date like this.”
I turned so that I was facing him, capturing his cheeks between my hands. I gazed into his troubled golden eyes, then leaned up on my tiptoes and kissed him softly.
“I’m happy with our date, Adam,” I told him sincerely. “It’s been wonderful. I only wish we could be free to be ourselves more often.”
Adam responded by peppering kisses all over my face—my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, until finally, my lips. “I know, baby. I know. Me too.”
I understood, though. If anyone from Adam’s pack saw us together and reported back to his family, things could get bad for us, quick.
“C’mon,” I said, giving Adam’s hand a gentle tug. “It’s cold.” I gave one final glance to the river, where the invisible fish were swimming. “Can we go fishing next spring?” I asked, peering up at him.
“Fishing?” He seemed surprised, but also amused.
“Yeah, I went a couple of times when I was a little kid, but I was shit at it. I was afraid of hooking the worm on the hook. It was gross.”
Adam grinned. “I’ll hook your worm for you, darling.”
I laughed. “I’ll hook your worm, too, if you know what I mean.” I waggled my brows, but flushed when Adam’s grin turned decidedly feral.
He chased me the rest of the way to the car.
Thankfully, we were parked in a secluded spot, because we happened to get up to hijinks that included us getting sweaty and Adam’s sweatshirt getting covered in cum as we frotted together in the back seat.
After, spent and sated, we laid together, our breathing uneven, and I kissed Adam. I knew that someday this would end, but right now I was going to pretend that it was never going to, that Adam Sinclair was mine to keep, forever and always.
28
FLETCHER
I laid on the couch,flipping idly through the thriller novel Adam had been reading the night before, skimming the black and white text for punchy words like “gunshot” and “murder” just for fun, when a shadow fell over me.
I glanced up to see Adam standing behind the couch, his hands resting atop the back of the cushions.
“I made you something,” he said, a hint of pride to his voice.
