“And how is that bad?”
He shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. “He isn’t...I don’t think he deserves the pedestal people put him on.”
I frowned, but I couldn’t ask what he meant by that because Mom kept staring at us. Instead, I shook my head. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
His fingers circled my shoulder. “I told you I remembered you.” Then he seemed to remember Mom was watching. “Even if it hadn’t been for her brilliance...your daughter left quite the impression on me.”
I couldn’t remember how to breathe. I didn’t know if what he was saying was because this was the kind of thing a mom would want to hear. Our eyes locked, as if we were both trying to read the other’s thoughts.
Mom’s tired eyes glinted with something like pride. “I always thought she’d do something within the arts.” She glanced toward the shelf with the sketch I had made. “She’s so talented.”
“She is,” John agreed, his nearly black eyes still resting on my face.
I cleared the lump in my throat. “It’s just a hobby, Mom. And we have the shop, don’t we?” I finished my wine in one gulp.
She nodded to herself. “We do. That we do.” She stifled a yawn.
I elbowed John. “It’s getting late.”
Mom made John promise to come back soon. Then she turned to me. “You seem very happy.” She brushed my cheek. “Keep him close.”
I ignored the painful twist in my gut. “I will.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Only pretty stories are worth telling.
I couldn’t hate John Kater even if I tried.
Some cravings get worse when you give in.
“Ah, ah, ah,” John tugged on my arm, redirecting me from his car toward the shop front. “You promised me a drawer reveal.”
I grumbled. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to see the store—Skye’s was everything to me. My pride, my joy, and my occasional nightmare. But I wasn’t thrilled at the thought of him spotting the peeling paint on the door, the shelves barely held together by other books shoved beneath them, or the computer that had long since become more decorative than functional.
I needn’t have worried. As soon as I unlocked the front door and flicked on the small light behind the counter, John’s eyes started...gleaming. A tentative smile broke loose as he took it all in: the golden velvet sofa, patched but comfy, the thrifted coffee table, the nooks and crannies of my teenage years.
He tilted his head. “I spy something green,” he said smugly.
“Shut up.” Of course, he would spot his own books from a mile away. Damn you, Otis.
The floorboards creaked beneath his steps as he crossed the carpet—once part of my mom’s flat in Berlin. Now, a little worse for wear.
I plopped myself onto the desk, actually quite enjoying the sight of him perusing the stacks. A slow pitter-patter began as heavy raindrops decided to make this even cozier than it already was. They painted a pattern of shadow and streetlight on the rug. It was almost romantic. Instead of scoffing, I found myself grinning. Ew, Nora.
John’s next words took me by surprise.
“It hasn’t changed a bit.”
“What?” I let out a breathless laugh, crossing my legs on the counter and leaning my weight onto my palms. “Don’t tell me you’ve been here before.”
John’s smile was as smug as always, but there was a gentleness to it. “The morning of the lecture, actually. And then every time I was in town. I just didn’t know Robert Skye was your dad.”
I was speechless. Call the cops. Call Otis. This was an event for the calendar: the day Nora officially had nothing left to say.
He stopped his roaming and stood in front of me. The smell of him mingled with the scent of books. “I remember him. Your dad. I’d almost forgotten about it, but when I saw his picture on your mom’s wall, it all came back. I’m sorry he passed.”
I swallowed hard. My throat suddenly thick—almost painful. “What do you remember?”
