Page 34 of Touch

Love falls silent. Allies. Even if his suggestion came with a set of instructions—one,define, two,consider, and three,accept—she wouldn’t know what to do with this alliance. Other than Wonder, no one has ever wished to become Love’s ally before.

What are you hiding?

Andrew can take his pick. Love is hiding the constellations’ true power, supernatural dominion over the human heart, and the laws of immortal destiny. Oh, and a romance novel in her right pocket.

Why are you alone?

This was going so well. She slits her eyes at Andrew.

He lowers the notepad and peers at her. “When we met in the forest, you were by yourself.”

His comment lodges a stone in her throat. “There is only me. I’m used to it.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you don’t wish to.”

“Wrong. My misery doesn’t love company.”

Finally, more information about him. Though, she doesn’t care for his statement. “You’re unhappy?”

“Only when I’m not writing.”

She thinks of the note he’d penned about her in the forest. “You favor fiction over reality.”

Andrew inspects the bookshelves. “Fiction examines the truth from different angles.”

“So you’re a philosopher in your spare time.”

“Another term for it is ‘tortured poet.’”

“Or philosopher. Yet where does the unhappiness fit in?”

The shape of Andrew’s face changes, a surplus of emotions bending his features in the opposite direction of where they’d been a moment ago. “That’s a candid question.”

Love hates what the inquiry does to his mood, but she holds her ground. “And that makes us equal.”

He nods, then strides backward while confessing, “Fair enough.”

Twisting away, Andrew resumes his work on the shelves, the unanswered inquiry trailing in his wake. She wants to know more, to understand the grief lurking in his voice. Except this inclination has less to do with investigating his effect on deities and more to do with healing whatever ails him. Yet however much Love wishes otherwise, his pain is not her responsibility, apart from doing reconnaissance.

She migrates to the romance section, where her fingers slip into her pocket and retrieve Andrew’s book. Despite the theme of deities and a few details vaguely similar to Love’s mythology, the contents haven’t revealed anything threatening. Thus, the key to his sight must reside in a different title.

Intending to return the book, she lifts her hand—

“Searching for a book hangover cure, Little Myth?”

—and naturally gets caught. Sighing, she wheels on Andrew. He’s standing in the doorway, his attention dartingbetween her guilty face and the title in her hand. “You’re a busy thief. At least, now I know why.”

“I was going to give it back,” she testifies. “This is me, giving it back.”

“Did you like it?”

The story was riveting—and arousing. “Adequately done.”

Amusement tilts his lips. “Picky, picky.”

Love swipes the flat of her palm through his shoulder, attempting to mock-slap him, then regrets it as Andrew sucks in a breath. His reaction should make her chuckle, but all it does is inundate her with more temptations, namely the various potential ways to explore his body. A desire that will never be fulfilled.

---