Page 29 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I should let go of her hand. I don’t.

“Then we should probably head back inside,” I say, even though every part of me resists it.

Lucy studies me for a second, her expression easing. “Two more seconds.”

Before I can respond, she rises onto her toes and presses a quick, shy kiss to my cheek. Then she pulls back, hiding her smile behind her hand as if she’s just surprised herself.

The warmth of her lips lingers long after she steps back.

And standing there under the parking lot lights, watching her retreat toward the building, one thing becomes perfectly clear.

Whatever rules I made before Lucy, they’re starting to feel impossible to keep.

Chapter Seven

Lucy

I’ve reread the same passage in Jane Eyre eight times.

Saturday breakfast has filled every table around me. Silverware scrapes against plates, the espresso machine releases impatient bursts of steam, and sunlight flashes across the glass sugar dispenser whenever someone opens the door. Normally, the familiar noise settles easily around me. Today, every sound feels like an interruption. Even the words beneath my fingertips seem restless, refusing to remain in their proper sentences.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t focus. Every time the café door dings, signaling someone’s entrance, I lose my place and look up, hoping it’s him.

I kissed Dylan last night.

Not an earth-shattering, breath-stealing kiss. Just a brush of my lips against his cheek. Close enough to feel his breath against my skin. Close enough to leave me wondering what comes next, but not pushing me toward anything I’m not ready for.

Now all I can think about is what it would be like to kiss his lips.

Maybe I’m ready for that. Or maybe I’m not.

The downside of being “Library Girl” is that every romantic first I’ve ever experienced has happened on the page. At twenty-one, I’ve never kissed anyone on the lips. I’ve been on exactly one date. Two, if I count my time with Dylan last weekend. That first date was with Joel Wiley junior year of high school. We went to a science fair together. He tried to hold my hand, and I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that. After that day, he never talked to me again.

Evidently, a lifetime of reading romance offers very little practical instruction.

In books, I’m Elizabeth Bennet. I’m witty, bold, and unafraid to speak my mind. In reality, I’m closer to Charlotte Lucas. I’m practical enough to expect very little and cautious enough not to ask for more.

Except I’d never marry Mr. Collins.

Not after he proposed to my best friend, anyway.

Not that I have a best friend outside of Ms. Thorn. I should probably work on that.

“You look deep in thought.”

Dylan’s voice pulls me back to the present.

I close Jane Eyre as he slides into the chair across from me, abandoning any pretense that I’m going to keep reading.

“I was thinking about Charlotte Lucas.”

“We are all fools in love,” he says easily.

“That’s the movie, not Austen.”

“It’s still a good line.”

I rest my chin in my hand. “Do you really believe that about love?”