Page 63 of The Huckleberry Bookshop

“You’re a therapist?”

“No, no.” He spread out his hands, his rings shining under the lights above the cash register. “Just a casual group thing. Really, they just share stories. You know, let each other know it’s okay to feel the things we feel.”

“That’s a lot more important than a cookbook photo shoot,” she said quietly.

“No. I let you down.”

“Chad, what does a cookbook matter compared to easing someone else’s pain?”

“You’re not mad?”

“How can I be when you’re being…you.” When he was finally opening up and sharing how he felt. When he was out there helping other people despite his own distress.

He sucked in a deep breath like she’d given him air. Then those blazing eyes of his landed hard on hers and he said with devastating certainty, “Kiss me.”

Chapter 11

Mullens brushed Athena’s lips with his thumb. They were red from kissing, her eyes bright despite her obvious fatigue. She’d been working too hard lately. It was Saturday and she was working. Always working.

Always running.

“Thanks for telling me about your sister and family,” she whispered, cuddling into his side and making him feel more at home than he had in several decades.

Earlier, when she’d stepped onto the bottom rung of her stool, lifting herself higher so she could better reach him over the counter during their kiss, he’d slid her across the surface and into his arms. That, it turned out, had been a smart move, as the kiss had gone on for a very long and wonderful time.

He was surprised how light he felt after telling Athena about his sister, his parents, his family. She hadn’t looked at him with pity or treated him like a dumb, wounded kid, and that filled him with gratitude.

“I’ll try to let you in more.”

“Okay.”

“But that means you need to let me in as well.”

Surprise and indignation flattened her expression. “I do!”

“Yeah? What are you running from?”

“I’m not running from anything.” She pushed away, clearly insulted, as if he’d touched a sore spot nobody was supposed to notice or acknowledge. She nudged the frames of her glasses higher on her face.

“You’re like me.”

“Yeah? How’s that?” She was facing him now, a challenge held in her posture.

“You find ways to bury the hurt. You keep busy. Obsess over details and rules. Leave no time to think or feel about other things.”

“And what makes you think I’m busy?” Her eyes twinkled and she flicked a hand toward the bookshelves to her left.

Hey, fair was fair. If she got to ask direct questions, he did, too.

“You obsess over your subscriber numbers and asked me to go beat up that person who unsubscribed.”

“That was a joke!”

He studied her for a long moment, knowing he was on dangerous ground, but that he needed to push if they were going to be real with each other. Truly and scarily real.

“Your mom’s in a wheelchair,” he stated. “Multiple sclerosis?”

She gave a tiny nod, confirming his guess that Mrs. Gavras had the autoimmune disease, and that it was slowly attacking her nervous system.

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