I can’t even think straight. “Food sounds good,” I mumble.
He hands me a glass of red wine, winking.
It’s getting late. I keep forgetting I have a new dog, and I’m sure he’s hungry. Here’s to hoping he hasn’t urinated all over my stuff. “Cheers,” I say.
Clinking his glass against mine, we both take a sip before I return to his book collection.
Marc’s shadow grows behind me, until he’s positioned against my hip. For a brief moment, I brace for his touch and forget about my responsibilities. But when he reaches his arm above me, I realize he’s pulling a specific book from its place. It’s Pride & Prejudice, an obvious choice, but I can’t help but profess my love for the eternal romance novel.
“If you want, you can spend some time in here, while I finish up in the kitchen,” he says, practically pushing the book into my hands.
I look up from the book to his deep-seated eyes. “You mean it?”
His upper lip curls into a curious smile. “You look like I’m offering you the world.”
This is a lot to offer. I don’t want to come off as too poor and uneducated, especially when I’m teaching his daughter the ins and outs of the English language. However, the more I’m in his presence, the harder it becomes to speak. When I finally find the right words, I’m sure he thinks I’m a lunatic.
“I mean, you kind of are offering me the world. This place is incredible,” I say.
He looks uninterested. A tiny bit distracted, too. “I hired an interior decorator. The books are mainly for display purposes, but Sammy seems to enjoy them.”
That’s why he owns the books? To look cool?
I laugh because all of this is a little too much to understand for someone like me, and I’m a little frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm. “I’m not sure you know what treasures you’re sitting on,” I say.
“My bids were for first edition copies,” he says. “If they’re fakes, I’m going to write an angry email.”
I open the book and check it out. The year is printed in charcoal. It’s signed, London 1816. “My God,” I mutter. “This must have cost a fortune.”
Leaning over my shoulder, he points to the publisher name. John Murray. It’s a real copy. “You don’t want to know how much I spent.”
I quickly close its pages and lean on my toes to put it back on the top shelf. “You’re right. It’ll probably just piss me off. I’ve never owned an original anything.”
He stops me from returning it to its rightful corner, briefly bringing his hand to the small of my back. “Well, I’d like to hear your expert opinion,” he says. “What do you think? Is it fake?”
Careful not to run my finger over the pencil signature from the publisher, I hold the book closer to my face. The aroma is ancient but familiar. “It’s pretty neat,” I admit. “Definitely real. Not a fake.”
Positioning his waist close to mine, he leans and grabs the edge of the book, gliding his hand over mine. “What should we do with it?”
I give him my answer without flinching. “Keep it. Forever.”
Gently, he closes its cover. I turn to hand him the book, but to my surprise, he shakes his head and closes my hand around both ends. “Why don’t you keep it instead?”
“You’re… serious?”
He nods, appearing more cheeky than he was just a few moments ago. “I tend to lose things,” he says, shrugging into the kitchen to check on the food. A delicious smell emanates from the oven. “And you seem to care more about it than I do. So why not hand it over to someone who cares?”
I don’t enjoy receiving gifts. In fact, it makes me feel a little on-the-spot. This is a really expensive book, rarer than most diamonds. I can’t accept it without returning some type of favor. “Maybe I could read it to Sammy,” I blurt out.
He lowers his voice and eyes me. “Speaking of Sammy, how were things today? Anything from that Xander kid?”
I remember how rejected he looked on the playground, and how Sammy looked back at him like there were words needed to be said between the two. Realizing I’m gripping the old book too tight, I put it down and take a deep breath.
I zig-zag through Marc, pausing at the marble kitchen island. “Well, I think something is going on between them,” I say.
Although he chuckles, I can sense some anger forming. His face solidifies, and the cute smile soon melts into a distasteful frown. “My daughter’s eight. She believes in cooties, not holding hands.”
“Actually, kids display awareness of attraction at a really early age,” I say. “Your daughter might have her first crush.”
Shutting his eyes, he groans. “This is not a conversation I thought I’d ever have,” he says, face pained. “She’s my little angel.”
I lean against the island, noticing a world of space between us. “I think I agree with her,” I say. “Boys have cooties. They’re very intent on spreading them.”
He narrows his eyes and meanders to the side of the island, occupying himself with the silverware. I catch those eyes lower, before they rise to meet my own. “Is that some kind of jab at me?”
“It’s just a trend I’ve noticed,” I say.
In the living room, Sammy quietly plays with her dolls. “Just keep an eye on those two,” he says. “For a little while longer, at least. She’s acting quieter than her usual self.”
Taking another sip of wine, I feel a sense of urgency overtake my buzz. “Quit worrying. She’s my priority,” I say.
There’s some space between us, but we’re both looking at Sammy.
When his smile returns, I know we’re still good. Over the last few days, our rapport has grown into something like a feud. I’m not sure if there’s any way
