Page 84 of A Novel Love Story

ISTUMBLED INTO THE BOOKSTOREaround ten, my head swimming with lemon drops and one too many stolen sips of mojitos and rum and Cokes. The girls made sure I was inside before they turned down the street and made their way home, singing Fleetwood Mac like I always imagined they would.

The bookstore was dark and cool, and the silence was so welcome after the heady noise of the bar. I stood there for a long moment, letting the ringing in my ears fade to the creaking quiet of the store. That was when I noticed that there was a light on in the back alcove with the couch. Anders was still awake?

I should’ve gone up the stairs and straight to bed, but my curiosity got the better of me.

He was stretched out on the threadbare couch, reading a book, a glass of whiskey in his hand that he swirled slowly, the ice clinking in the glass. In the soft light from the lamp behind him, he looked content as he turned the page, his once-sharp edges softer in the dark.

I wondered what kind of person he’d been before he came to Eloraton, why his ex left, and who Rachel Flowers had imagined for his future—was she stoic to match his silence, or were there laughter lines around her eyes like there were his? Did she carry herself with as much rigidness, or was she a little looser—did she dance? Or stand on the sidelines and watch? How did she like to be kissed? Did a shiver crawl up her spine when he purred her name into her ear?

Could it ever be me?

“Eileen,” Anders said without looking up from his book, “if you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m going to catch a cold.”

Then, slowly, he turned his minty gaze up to look at me. He thoughtIwas undressinghim? That single look stripped me bare. A flash of heat crawled across my cheeks.

I replied, “Then you shouldn’t be reading.”

His eyebrows raised a fraction, amused. “Is that your thing?”

I wasn’t sure if the alcohol that warmed my stomach and made my head buzzy was the cause of my bold sass, or if it was just his haughty attitude, but I marched over to the couch and fell onto the other side. “It helps if he’s wearing a tweed coat.”

He rolled his eyes. “Again with the tweed. No matter how many times you ask, the answer’s the same.”

“Pity. I guess you’re not the kind of guy I’m looking for.”

“Pity indeed,” he replied, and returned to his book. “How was girls’ night?”

“Oh, you know, we plotted world domination and discussed the best poisons to kill our husbands.”

“You don’t have a husband,” he tsked.

“I almost did,” I replied, half joking, but mostly not. His eyes flicked to my face, studying me. I took his glass and downed the rest of his whiskey. It burned all the way down. He gave me a disapproving look,and then poured himself another from the decanter on the coffee table.

“He was a fool, then,” he said, “whoever he was.”

“To marry me?”

“To not.”

I smiled, despite myself. “He’d say differently.”

“He doesn’t matter. He let you go.” Anders said it so simply, it felt like the truth.

My stomach burned, wanting nothing more than to lean over and kiss him again, and taste him, too, and breathe in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, and the smell of old books that clung to his clothes. And maybe he would’ve leaned in, too, and kissed me, if I hadn’t said—

“I’m leaving soon, so even if you wanted more, if I wanted more, we …” I pursed my lips, and looked away. “What do we do?”

He inclined his head, and his silence spoke volumes. Finally he said, “Someone once told me that we can only take on as much as we can carry with us.”

I curled my legs up under me, watching him in the low light. “Would you carry me with you?” And then, because I couldn’t bear the weight of this conversation, I added, “Like in a satchel or … ?”

He laughed softly, probably made easier by the whiskey in his hand. “If you’ll let me, I’ll carry you here.”

And then he picked up my hand, and kissed my palm, and placed it over his heart. And I felt his heartbeat under my fingers, bright and strong, and his skin was warm, and I couldn’t imagine for a moment that this man could ever be fictional when he was so veryhere. He had blood, and bones, and a beating heart, and calluses on the tips of his fingers, and a curl that never quite left his forehead,and eyes that weren’t quite green and weren’t quite gray, but a bright mint that was quickly becoming my favorite color.

After a moment of feeling his pulse, I whispered, “I would like that.”

Because he was right: sometimes people came into your life for brief moments, and changed you forever. I think he was my person.

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