Wren’s too-pleased grin was adorable. “I knew it would.”
“Writers shouldn’t end stories like that,” he added, feigning a grumble.
“They absolutely should,” she countered. “Emotional devastation is the best.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “I had no idea you were a sadist when I let you pick out that book for me.”
She smirked, zero remorse on her face. “You want another one?”
“Hell yeah.”
God, she was easy to talk to. This conversation reminded him so much of the ones he’d shared with Lark at the festival. The conversation flowed effortlessly. No awkwardness. Just warmth and humor.
“Did you cry?” she asked cheekily.
“No,” he said firmly. “I did not cry.”
She giggled. “Yeah, right. You totally cried.”
He lifted one shoulder. “I might have gotten something in my eye at one point, but that’s just because paperbacks are dustier than eBooks.”
She rolled her eyes. “Mm-hmm. Sure, they are.”
“Smart-ass,” he teased. He’d called Lark the same, so obviously it ran in the family, he thought with amusement.
Wren grabbed the book from the counter, hugging it briefly to her chest like she was welcoming one of her small children home from school. The move was cute enough to make him smile again.
“Favorite part?” she asked.
He didn’t even have to think about his answer, because there was no contest. “The cabin scene.”
Her eyes lit up. “Right? That scene would be incredible in a movie.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. It was written well enough, I could see it playing out in my mind.”
She rounded the circulation desk, her excitement building. “The whole thing would make an amazing movie if they casted it right.”
He shook his head. “Hollywood has let me down too many times. They’d screw it up.”
She lifted one shoulder. “You’re probably right. But in a perfect world, who would play Charles?”
For the next twenty minutes, they stood in the middle of the library, debating actors and arguing over which scenes would survive an adaptation. It was fun.
Wren tucked the book under her arm and motioned to a cart overflowing with novels. “Want to walk with me while I reshelve? We can figure out your next read as we go.”
The afternoon sunlight filtered through tall windows, bathing the stacks in bright yellow. Wren moved confidently between shelves, sliding the books into place with practiced ease.
“You know, this place feels a lot less intimidating now that I’m an adult.”
Wren looked scandalized. “Intimidating?”
“Admit it. The Dewey Decimal System was invented to torture school-age children.”
She gasped. “Take that back.”
Grayson crossed his arms. “Nope.”
“It’s beautiful organization.”
