Page 135 of Sawyer and the Bookworms

“Also,” Roman puts in, “you can add another single bed on either side and clip them on, making it almost as wide as the room.”

“Perfect,” I whisper.

“Oh, yeah.” Roman’s dark eyes twinkle. “I think it will be, especially with you and Brinlee in it.”

I smile back at him, feeling damn happy. “And the other rooms?”

“Oh, boy.” Now he laughs. “I did think you had a glazed look on your face when we showed you the study and the playroom. You weren’t paying much attention, were you?”

“Playroom?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Kyrian mutters, grinning. “It’s our mancave, where we play pool and videogames.”

“Gotcha.”

“Told you he wasn’t paying attention,” Archer says.

“That’s a good sign,” Roman argues. “We got him all worked up. Win.”

But my attention is still on Kyrian. A message beeps on his phone. And then he does something weird. Instead of reading the message, he plays it out loud.

Wait a minute… Something clicks inside my brain. Maybe it’s because I’m kinda out of it, feeling so hot and weird, and… It can’t be… can it? Is that why he’s been so adamant he hates books? Why he couldn’t read what was written under my doorbell?

“Kyrian,” I say.

“Call me Ky,” he says, and not for the first time, either.

“Ky. You can’t read, can you?”

He flinches. Then his face pales and his gray eyes widen. The look he shoots me is… furious. And fragile. “The fuck,” he hisses.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me.”

His jaw works. Now red tints his cheekbones. “How did you…? Shit.”

Not a denial. He’s basically just admitted to it. And I don’t feel triumphant or anything. I feel… sorry. Especially since he has said he loves stories. And now I feel like an ass for not figuring it out sooner.

“Do they know?” I glance at Archer and Roman who are debating the merits of adding a bigger sofa to the playroom.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“I won’t tell,” I say. “Not until you do. But why hide it? It’s nothing shameful.”

“Says you,” he growls, “the bookworm, the educated man. I’m a piece of white trash, raised in foster homes, told over and over how stupid I am.”

“You’re not stupid,” I whisper. “Never thought you were. You’re the one who figured me out from the start. You understand me. It’s not your fault if the adults in your life growing up didn’t give a shit, if they neglected you and didn’t bother helping you learn to read.”

“I’m slow-witted,” he says gruffly. “Couldn’t concentrate.”

“While being passed around foster homes? Are you kidding me? Who would? Did those foster parents treat you well?”

He scowls. “I didn’t need special treatment. I’m not a pussy.”

“I bet you’re not. But that has nothing to do with it.” Though of course it does. Hiding your hurt with bravado is all too common, sadly. I’m often guilty of that, too. “They didn’t treat you well, did they?”

“I wasn’t their kid. They weren’t very invested.” He shrugs those powerful shoulders—powerful now, but I can picture him as a skinny little boy, passed around people who didn’t give a damn about him, not bothering to look into why he couldn’t read and write, labeling him stupid and ignoring him the rest of the time.

“Then they were the idiots,” I whisper and dare to take his hand in mine, savoring his startled expression. “Not you.”

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