Page 75 of One Small Spark
By the time the fictional couple walk away angry from their argument in chapter three, Wren’s trying to hide a yawn. It’s late, and I know she was in the bakery early this morning. Her car was already in the alley when I rolled in after nine.
“Sorry,” she says from behind her hand. “It was a pie prep day for me again. Six o’clock is a stupid time to get to work.”
“That’s why I don’t open until ten.”
She collapses against the back of the couch, her shoulder not quite touching mine. “Don’t rub it in. You don’t have to build the bikes.”
“Yes, I do. The bikes come partially disassembled.”
“They do?” She stares up at me, her head resting on the cushion. “With instructions like an Ikea dresser?”
“Pretty much.”
“Hmm. Only partially disassembled, though.”
“Sometimes I get requests for custom builds that I make entirely from scratch.”
She sags another inch closer to me. “That’s more like it.”
“Maybe we could get a bike for you sometime.”
“Oh, no.” She slides her hand from mine and escapes off the couch. “Don’t start trying to get me todo things.”
I stand and follow her across the room. “Wanting to ‘do things.’ How horrible.”
“I already have a bike, for your information. It’s an unrideable rust pile in my garage, and that’s the way I like it.”
“You know best.”
“I do. And—” She points at me like I’ve got a target on my chest. “That’s why I’m going to help you with your presentation.”
“Okay.” Might as well start giving in now. I plan to do a lot of it with her. “As soon as I have everything prepared, I will let you pelt me with rotten tomatoes.”
She nods, pleased with herself. “Thanks for catching me up on the book. I wouldn’t have known how annoying cowboys are otherwise.”
“Thanks for ignoring my stumbles.” Why the word “verisimilitude” is in that book, I can’t guess.
“You barely made any. You have a really nice voice. I listen to a lot of audiobooks, and your narration is way up there.”
I’ll remember that.
“And to think, a few weeks ago you said the sound of my voice made you wish you could weld your ears shut.”
Her cringe makes me regret the poorly timed joke. “I do have a way with words.”
I take a step closer, keeping her focus on me. “If it helps, I’ve always been more concerned with the way you look at me.”
She backs up until she’s against my door, her hands behind her. “How do I look at you?”
As if she doesn’t have a volcano of heat in her eyes right now.
I close the last scrap of distance between us until we’re nearly touching. “Like you can’t decide if you’d rather fight me or kiss me.”
Her laugh comes out breathy, her gaze stuck on my mouth. “It’s a really tough decision.”
“Not for me.” I rest one hand just over her head, and the other sifts into her hair. I’ve been itching to run my fingers through those wild blond strands all night.
“Fighting is less ambiguous,” she whispers. “I need super clear romantic signals.”
