Page 15 of Beautifully Messy
We wander through the aisles unhurried. The low hum of conversation and children narrating Santa’s imminent arrival fills the silence. His eyes stay wide, his fingers tracing book covers. I look away quickly when he catches me watching.
“I can’t believe we didn’t talk about books last night,” James says. “But I’ve got an idea. Let’s pick a book for each other.”
“Any rules? Because I’m not reading anything involving zoning codes.”
“Ha-ha, funny lady. Fiction only. And no helping. Let’s see how well we can guess what the other enjoys reading. We’ve got ten minutes. Go.”
James rushes off, and I twirl around, the thrill of the game intoxicating.
This man is fascinating. There’s something about him beyond good looks and being well-educated. Last night, when I asked him about the lake near his mom’s house, there was more behind his deflection than a divorce; a pain I recognize.
I grab two new releases by authors I love and go with my gut instinct. He sees me waiting by the doorway and gives me a crooked smile, forcing me to bury my face in my scarf like a silly schoolgirl.
Five
Theresortisafive-star hotel masquerading as a rustic mountain lodge, all the luxury amenities wrapped in carefully distressed wood and artfully placed antler chandeliers. A wooden trellis draped with flowing vines frames the entrance. Out back, panoramic mountain views stretch for miles, but I lead James to my favorite corner.
“This reminds me of the sunroom at the cabin,” James says, admiring the tucked-away alcove where two dark green velvet couches frame a gas fireplace.
“I think that’s why I love it. The sunroom’s my favorite. It’s where I go when I need a minute to myself.” I look away, ignoring the way his nod seems to mean he understands. “Okay, before we do our little book exchange, what’s the best novel you’ve read this year?”
James sinks into the couch across from me. Instead of manspreading, he leans thoughtfully forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Verity.”
“You readVerity?”
“All the women in my office were talking about it,” he says with an easy shrug, as if it’s not the most outlandish thing I’ve heard all week. “So I wanted to see what the hype was about. Still not sure how I feel about it. It was dark as hell, but it seems like the point of writing a novel is to have it stick with a reader, and that book stayed with me.”
“I love psychological thrillers,” I say, relaxing onto my couch. “Something fascinates me about delving into the dark and twisty places most people hide. That book was truly disturbing. I still can’t believe someone could think that up.”
“What about something more charming? A Regency romance? I learned within five minutes of meeting Jules that she prefers a lighter read.” He smiles, but it’s soft. There’s no teasing in his tone.
“Jules is very vocal about her reading preferences, but I was never the fairy tale type. And I don’t need an English lord to give up his rakish ways and sweep me off to the countryside.” I pause, but the rest spills out anyway. “Give me a dark, twisty tale full of uncomfortable truths any day. I don’t believe in happily-ever-afters; just... doing your best with what life throws at you.”
“Ah, but you know about rakish ways?” James teases.
I can’t believe I told him my fucked-up view of the world. What is wrong with me? I recover and, with my cheekiest smile, I say, “Awell-readwoman is a dangerous thing.”
After a beat, James smiles, looking… surprised. “So in one of your dark, twisty stories, would I be the first guy to get axed, or the mysterious stranger who causes all the trouble?”
“Can’t say yet. But definitely not a brooding English aristocrat.”
“Fair enough. Now, what do you have for me?” He leans forward, hand outstretched.
When he opens his and starts to laugh, I pull out his selection for me. The same two books I chose for him. A snort escapes before I can stop it—loud and completely unattractive. Heat floods my cheeks as I press my hand to my mouth.
What did my mother call that sound?
I was maybe six, playing in our backyard with my nanny while my mother worked under her umbrella, maintaining her careful distance from the sun. The neighbor’s Labrador bounded into our perfectly manicured yard, tail wagging furiously as it ran straight for me. The dog’s excitement was so pure that laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me.
That’s when the snort escaped for the first time.
My mother’s voice cut through the air. “Sydney, that is the ugliest sound I’ve ever heard. Ladies do not make that noise.”
The shame hit me, sharp and immediate. I learned it was best to swallow joy.
“I’m so sorry. That was…” I say, slowly dying from embarrassment.
Instead of looking horrified, his grin widens. “Now I know my goal for the week. To do something to make you laugh like that again.”
