Page 6 of One Small Spark
The woman I’m pretty sure is named Barb seems unfazed by the call-out. “It’s fair to discuss the rules of the ton when we’re reading historical romances.”
“We never got a chance to talk about the book,” Nora points out.
“But now we’ll know when we spot historical inaccuracies.”
A few of the women groan over that.
“Who would like to open discussion of this week’s book?” Ada asks.
She’s watching me, but I don’t want to go first. Iwilltalk about this romance book, but I’m still cramming the fact that Callahan made that bread into my brain. I can’t also discuss why the Scottish hero with the unscalable emotional walls was so swoony when he finally dropped them.
“I thought it was heartbreaking,” Nora says. “The hero had been abandoned and never loved properly, and the heroine had lost everyone she ever loved. But then, it was infuriating, too, when the hero wouldn’t just admit how he felt about her.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” Barb asks.
“Do men ever just admit how they feel?” Ada’s eyes dart to Callahan, but she’s not questioning him.
I wish she was. I’d like an answer.Domen admit how they feel? They must, right? All the women I care about now have men in their lives who must have verbalized a sensitive notion or two at some point. I’ve sure never experienced that, but I don’t hate the idea of it.
“Isn’t that why we read romance novels?” I put in. “So we can pretend men have a normal range of human emotions?”
“The heroine wasn’t forthcoming with her feelings for him, either,” Callahan says. “Most romance novels would end prettyquickly if the main characters said everything they were feeling the moment they felt it.”
“Read a lot of romances, have you?” I mutter.
He dips his head closer. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Ugh. This man.
“That’s why we love them,” Rosetta says. “The delicious tension of the push-pull where as the reader you know the characters are falling in love, but their histories make it impossible for them to admit it to each other.”
“There’s nothing like a good enemies to lovers,” Isabel adds. “They hate each other, but really, they don’t.”
“If they don’t hate each other, then it’s not enemies to lovers,” Barb says.
I want to add my two cents that love interests don’t need to have knives at each others’ throats to count as enemies, but Callahan splays one hand on his thigh, and I lose the conversation. The tip of his pinky finger rests against my leg. It’s some kind of power move. It has to be. One more nudge over the line that’s supposed to exist between us.
I can’t stop staring at that tiny point of contact. Crazy how much heat transfers from his pinky fingertip, through my leggings, to my skin. I should brush his hand away. Make it clear he can’t manspreadandhandspread.
His hand is kind of nice, though. If you’re into that sort of thing. Long fingers and a generous palm. Bigger than my hand, but not so enormous mine would look like a miniature in comparison. A myriad of shimmery scars dance over his skin. Probably from when he gets all up in some bike gear shaft or whatever he does in his shop.
Higher, a dark line at his wrist marks the beginning of his tattoo sleeve. It’s a stark transition from lightly tanned skin to dark gray ink. Both his arms are covered in mysterious black-and-gray tattoos with little pops of color I’ve never looked at too closely. They’re currently covered by his blue flannel shirt, but that visible sliver at his wrist before it disappears beneath the cuff bugs me.
The fact that I want to know what his tattoos are bugs me the most.
His fingers extend and flex once, brushing that pinky fingertip a few centimeters across my leg. I shiver against my will.
He grabs the blanket he’d moved out of the way when I sat down and offers it to me. “Cold?”
“Yes.” I gladly take the excuse and the blanket and spread it over my legs.
“Wren, you had something to say about the hero earlier, didn’t you?” Rosetta asks.
I stare at her, needing a minute to figure out what I’d planned to say. I took a lot of notes while I read, all of which have slipped my mind. “Uh…”
“Something about love being a lie,” Mr. Helpful offers.
“Right! Yes!” I’m a little too triumphant, but the clarity of thought is welcome after my brain fizzled out over his freaking hand. “The hero doesn’t think love is real because he’s never experienced it before. Both his parents abandoned him, and he never had anyone in his corner. But the heroine’s mad he’s not more romantic. If you don’t have any context for love, how can you be expected to search for it the way the heroine was?”
