Page 200 of Worth the Trip

No negotiation.

I carried the phone toward the bedroom, changed into leggings and an oversized tee, then returned to the sofa with the book he’d chosen at Sable & Spine. By then, Landon had moved from his practice plan to film review. The occasional click of his remote came through the speaker while I settled into the corner of the couch.

“You still working?”

“Film.”

“Which means you’re sitting down, watching men run.”

“Disrespectful oversimplification.”

“Accurate.”

“These grown men got assignments, Hershey.”

“And you’re yelling at recordings.”

“He missed the read.”

“Can he hear you?”

“Spiritually.”

I laughed and opened my book.

For a while, we did nothing together.

I read.

He reviewed film.

Every so often, he muttered something about leverage, foot placement, or a route somebody had apparently disrespected. Once, he praised a block with enough enthusiasm that I looked toward the phone and smiled.

I liked this.

Not the spectacle of romance.

The ordinary access.

My house remained mine. His work remained his. Neither one of us had to abandon the evening to prove we belonged inside each other’s lives.

Several pages later, something pale slipped from between the pages and landed in my lap.

I picked it up.

Cream cardstock.

Gold edge.

Landon’s handwriting across the center.

Every beautiful story deserves another chapter.

Beneath it sat a single initial.

L.

The film stopped through the speaker.