Page 48 of Love is an Open Book
“Hard to beat,” I agree, watching her. “And Faye and Dale are like family.” Morris and Riley, too, though I’d never admit it. “Can’t imagine working somewhere else.”
“Not even your family’s farm?”
Wondered when she’d bring it up. “I called my dad. He really is selling. He planned to tell me on my next visit and Scott wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
She gives me a rueful smile. “Sounds like your brother.”
“Never doing as he’s told? Yeah.” I push my sleeves up to my elbows to combat the humid warmth. “I feel like there are things Dad’s not saying, but I get the sense that he hasn’t given up on the idea of me taking over.”
“I’d miss you,” she says. “You didn’t ask but—”
“I didn’t ask because I was afraid you’d say it was no big deal.”
“It would be a huge deal.” Her gaze dips, lashes skimming her cheeks. “I’d be happy for you, but I’m not going to lie, adjusting to life without you around would suck.” She comes right out and says it without holding back this time, and I’m so grateful to hear it. “But you have to promise you won’t stay for me.”
“You’d have nothing to do with it.” I make a show of looking around. “Mia who? Never heard of her.”
She laughs, wandering down one of the aisles before resting against another potting bench. “This place feels safe, like a haven. That’s where Sydney and Victor are in the plot, and I’m struggling to yank them into the next step.”
They were the first characters I ever got invested in when I read the book she sent me to rescue on the night we met. “You never planned for them to stay friends.” A truth only I know.Publicly, Mia invented the friends-only backstory because after what happened with Ted, she abandoned their story, convinced friendship isn’t a solid foundation for love.
“As friends, they get a happy-ever-after. Add romance and it becomes volatile.” She bends to sniff a bright red geranium. “Their love shifts from being the anchoring point to just another element of chaos. Unpredictable.”
“Change isn’t always bad. Without change, seeds are just unrealized potential.”
“Don’t you dare make a plant metaphor.”
I laugh, playing along. “Let your characters bloom, Mia.”
She claps her hands over her ears.
In the mood to be a pest, I stand in front of her, grinning at her show of not listening. “All you need to do is plant the seed, and let nature take its course.”
“That wasn’t half bad.” She lowers her hands, which were clearly not doing a good job of shutting out my words. “Clunky, but the spirit was there.”
I put a hand to my heart. “Hurts that you doubted me. From what I hear, anyone can write a novel, not like it’s hard.” At one of Mia’s signings, a reader came up and told her that. She didn’t miss a beat. Just signed her name and told them she’d be first in line to buy their book when the time came.
“If I had a dime for every time I heard that...” She shakes her head. “It’s half true. Everyone has a story to tell. But easy? Hardest thing I’ve ever done, every time.” She picks up a fallen moss rose, spinning it between her fingers. “Will I be a fraud if I give them a happy-ever-after I don’t believe in?”
Looks like she hasn’t been able to leave Sydney and Victor behind today. “You don’t believe in it now, but could you get to that place?” I need to hear her answer, for us. “After all,” I say, when the silence stretches too long. “Feelings...” I pause at her warning look, but can’t resist. “Grow.”
“That was a bridge too far,” she says, grinning nonetheless.
“But it’s true. Love doesn’t always follow a neat and tidy three-act structure. Maybe Victor and Sydney weren’t ready that first time around. Maybe they needed four books to figure out their love is deeper than friendship.”
She looks up at me. “You know what? Maybe they did.” Her skin glistens with moisture, like dewdrops on petals, heart-stoppingly beautiful. I know she’s not talking about us. She can’t be. But tendrils of hope twine around my heart.
What I feel has nothing to do with the setting. It’s not the tranquil, rhythmic drip of water off the leaves, or the sweet fragrance of growing things that’s making my breath come shallow. I felt the same way in the gritty darkness of the cave and the too-bright concourse of the mall. She tugged at my heart when she was slouching, adorably groggy, in my passenger seat. Stirred my blood when she was keyed up and breathless in my office.
This tender new thing between us isn’t a result of atmosphere or circumstance. It’s her, opening up in a way I never saw coming.Unexpected.This woman I’ve known for years still manages to surprise me.
We’re not touching, but I feel her in every part of me. Lately our hangouts have an agenda and rules. Gone are the casual hugs hello, the brush of our legs when we’re watching a movie on her couch. Maybe that’s why I feel starved for her.
My control feels fragile, like a vase of the finest crystal, ready to shatter at the least bit of rough handling. But there are no vases here. Only the foundation of sturdy pots and soil and roots and the promise of good things to come.
I take a step toward her, another... she reaches for me... And suddenly we are touching, for real, not the fantasy we created with our words.
Her hands are on my waist and my hips are slotted between her thighs in a perfect fit that only heightens my desire. The wanting is almost too good, the ache igniting an intense cravingin me, echoed by the dig of Mia’s fingertips, the hitch in her breath when I skim my fingers under the hem of her shorts, the way she pulls me against her, hard, our bodies notched together with a force that knocks the air from my lungs.
