Page 36 of Bottles & Blades

No novels.

Dry historical military nonfiction. Business nonfiction. Technological nonfiction. And the occasional biography.

The last one, at least, I can understand.

The ins and outs of someone’s mind, learning what makes someone tick, empathizing with all they’ve overcome—there are so many beautiful stories to take to heart.

But the universe will have to tear my romance novels out of my cold, dead hands.

He laughed at my indignation when he teased me about my books, but then he did something wonderful—and it was somehow more wonderful than all the things he’d already done today?—

Minus the kidnapping.

Yeah, that’s a convenient fact I’m dissociating from.

Though, of course, now that I’m understanding him a bit more…it makes sense.

In a pushy, alpha, billionaire way.

Like something out of my books.

Like something out of my fantasies.

Because he’d teased me then he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, drew me back against his chest, and did that something wonderful.

Because he shared.

Because he was thoughtful.

“My daughter,” he said, smoothing that hand down my spine, “Chrissy loves reading romance books too. Do you want me to ask her what she’s reading right now? See if she has any recommendations?”

I smiled, listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, and murmured, “Sure.”

Because guaranteed happy endings willalwaystriumph over everything else.

Especially when happy endings aren’t promised in real life.

Then I asked him to tell me about her.

And I listened to the obvious love and affection in his voice as he talked about her cat rescue and her work for the Eagles. I listened as he talked about the man she’d fallen in love with and the future they’re building with a baby on the way and a wedding to plan.

I listened to him…

And now I’m moving.

I peel back my lids. “What?—?”

“Shh,” he murmurs as the movement stops and he sets me on something soft.

My bed.

But then he’s pulling the sheet and comforter up and over me.

A kiss to the top of my head, those knuckles brushing over my cheek again.

More soft words.

“Go back to sleep, buttercup.”

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