Page 55 of Neat
But instead, an entire paragraph of text mixed with emojis came through.
Mallory:I told you I’m not good with emotions, and you recommend this book??? Are you an emotional serial killer? Frederick just got beat up, and Werner went home with him, but now they’re saying he’s been lying and that he’s 18 when he’s actually 16 and all because they want him in Berlin to build technology for the Nazis. And then poor Marie-Laure is growing up and losing her innocence because she knows her dad isn’t coming back and Etienne won’t let Madame Blanchard run her rebellion out of his house anymore and… and…
There was a pause, and then a single crying face emoji came through.
I chuckled, relief washing over me at the same time that a powerful ache rolled through my chest again. I remembered those feelings when I’d readAll the Light We Cannot See, and the way the story unfolded, the incredible writing, the powerful emotions — they were all part of the reason it was my favorite book.
She was reading my favorite book.
And somehow, that string of emotions she was feeling while reading it was better than anything else she could have said in that moment.
Me:You’re reading.
Mallory:I’m reading.
Mallory:And can barely breathe let alone put this book down, all thanks to you. Asshole.
I smiled, chest tightening as my fingers hovered over the keyboard, wondering what to say next. I didn’t know if I should bring up last night, if I should take the opportunity to ask what she was thinking. But before I could decide, another text came through.
Mallory:And maybe it was ME looking for an excuse to text YOU this time…
My heart leapt like a fucking leprechaun, and I couldn’t bite back the smile that bloomed on my face if I tried.
Me:I’m glad you found one.
I waited for another text to come through, but when it didn’t, I slipped my phone into the cupholder in my console, deciding to save the words I really wanted to say for when I’d see her tomorrow. Then, I put my old truck in drive, and I drove home with a twist in my stomach — the same one that had been there all night, only now, it wasn’t from anxiety, but from an unbearable excitement.
I couldn’t wait to see her in the morning.
Mallory
I was way too giddy to be going into work.
After the conversation I’d had with my dad, I should have been dreading walking through those distillery doors. I should have had a stomach full of knots because I’d have to tell Logan Becker that what happened Saturday night could never,ever, happen again, that we had to draw a line between us and stay firmly on opposite sides, that I had a lot to lose and so did he, and we should just stay away from each other.
But I realized as I bounced down the hall to the tour guide lobby thatshould havedidn’t matter much to me — and it’d been that way my whole life. I didn’t heed the warnings I was given, and I didn’t do what I was told.
I had two coffees in my hand when I slipped into Logan’s office, and just like I knew he would be, he was already there, highlighting something on his clipboard when I sat the coffee down in front of him.
“Happy Monday,” I said, plopping down in the seat across from him.
Logan kicked back in his chair, and for the first time since he was inside me on Saturday night, our eyes met. “Mornin’.”
I drank him in likehewas the piping hot cup of coffee then, my neck heating as his eyes trailed slowly over me, too. My fingers ached to run through his hair, to pull on it until it was as disheveled as it had been that night in my bed. I let my eyes stop at every memorable spot as they grazed his body — that wide chest I’d laid my head on half the night, the abs I now knew he hid under that polo, those strong hands that had pinned me against my front door.
I squeezed my thighs together, meeting his eyes at the same time his snapped up from my lips.
“So… Saturday happened.”
He chuckled, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and folding his hands behind his head. “Indeed, it did.” He frowned then, and I watched the Adam’s apple in his throat bob. “I told my mom.”
My eyes shot open wide. “You told your mom that we fucked?”
“No, no, no,” he said, eyes doubling as he held his hands out toward me. “I would never… no. I just, shemayhave noticed that I was distracted at dinner last night, and Imayhave told her that… well, thatyouwere the distraction.”
Even though I could tell by his features that the conversation with his mom hadn’t gone well, I couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that he’d told her about me, at all. It was a silly, foolish feeling, like the kind I’d had as a teenager when bad boy Ronny Carmichael passed me a note between classes.
I’d been on his mind.
