“No,I’msorry. It was my stupid idea.” I keep thinking about how badly I could’ve screwed up the rest of our summer with this little stunt.
“I didn’t put up much of a fight,” she adds sheepishly.
I shrug and move back to the dishes in the sink.
She squeezes my hand underneath the soapy water and then grabs for the plate she dropped. “I’ll bring you back your sweatshirt tomorrow. Grannie’s washing it.”
I glance over and take her in for the first time since she came in. Her hair is still damp from her shower, pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, and there’s no makeup on her face. I can finally see all the freckles on her cheeks again. She looks likemy Avi, and I can’t help but smile despite the circumstances.
“You can keep it…” I say, when all I want to do is blurt out how much hotter she is like this—relaxed, comfortable, casual. “If you want.”
I really liked the way she looked in it anyway, and I love the idea of her having something of mine. Maybe she’ll wear it when she gets back home and think of me more often.
“Really?” she says quietly, her cheek lifting on one side as a small smile overtakes her lips.
“Aye.” I’m sure Mum will ask what happened to it, but I’ll just use some of my allowance to buy another one.
“Thanks, Jamie.” She turns back to the sink and so do I. As we finish the dishes, I feel every brush of her shoulder against mine like an electric shock, but I keep leaning in for more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Avonlea – Now
After my nightly call with Lennox and one last check of the kitchen to ensure it’s gleaming for breakfast service tomorrow, I head for the parlor and the small library of books there. I didn’t bring any of mine from home, and though I have my Kindle, I’m craving the feel of a physical book in my hands. I scan the shelves, hoping someone left a book that will grab my interest and keep me from dwelling on the one thing—person—that never seems far from my mind these days.
I brush my fingers across the spines and have to stifle a chuckle.
Here I was hoping for a distraction from the man, and instead I see his name on the very spine my fingers are splayed across.
Jameson L. Murray.
Of course they’d have his books in here.
From what I’ve gathered, Jamie hasn’t been back here for years, but that hasn’t kept his grandparents from being endlessly proud of his success. I keep my hand on the spine, as if it will connect me to the man himself, but my eyes travel around the shelf where I see several copies of each of his books scattered throughout.
I pull it between my fingers until it slides free and flip it open to the back panel of the dust jacket. Brushing my thumb over his picture, I think of how worn my own copies of these books are back at home. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve read them.
There’s history between me and Jamie—plenty of hurt and more than enough secrets—but when I told him I’d be his biggest fan, I meant it. Every first edition, I own. Special editions, they’re there on my shelf. The audiobooks, I have those too. The only thing I don’t have are signed copies, because though there were stores in Glasgow that carried them, I knew I’d only want his signature if I could get it in person… and that was never going to happen.
“Hey.”
The voice behind me makes me jump and drop the book with a thump. Pressing one hand to my heart and the other onto the shelf in front of me, I turn my head and am greeted by green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The skin around them crinkles with his smile. I love that smile, and my heart picks up its pace at the realization that it’s the first time he’s given it to me since I’ve been here.
“Hey,” I say shakily as he bends down to pick up the book. His book. “I was—”
“Just doing a bit of light reading?” he cuts in, handing it to me. My fingers slip against his and it’s like an electric shock to my system, a super charge that makes me weak at the knees.
“Have you seen how many copies of these your grandparents have in here?” I motion with the book toward the shelves.
“Yeah,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck, his ears turning pink against his auburn hair. I always loved that he couldn’t hide his blushes. I’m glad he still can’t.
“It’s clear they’re proud of you.”I am too, I think but don’t say.
“Not sure I deserve it,” he mumbles, gaze shifting around the room.
“You do,” I say, clutching the copy ofJournals of Elsewhereto my chest.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. If he feels this guilty about not returning to see them for all these years, why didn’t he? He could have come back any time he wanted. “You don’t have to read that, you know. Plenty of other books here.” His fingers dance along the many spines, touching any but his own.
