I pretended to watch a leaf floating in the breeze as I forced the strange feeling away.
“Callahan’s Garage, of course.”
I squinted at him. “Neal let you store your Jeep there?”
He tossed me a sheepish grin and patted the hood. “I didn’t saythat. Ben hid it in the back of the yard for me.”
“That tracks.”
He studied me for a beat, the humor fading from his expression. “You doing okay?”
The question was soft—and worse, disturbingly heartfelt.
I opened my mouth, ready to deflect, but the words caught somewhere between my ribs. Once again, I didn’t have the energy to be clever.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, nearly choking on the words. “He has a daughter now—Camille. I guess that makes her my sister.” My voice broke off. “He doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of springing a surprise sibling on me or trying to burrow back into my life.”
Teddy’s brow furrowed. “What doyouwant?”
I gave him a sideways look. “Why do I always need to want something?”
The question curdled in my mouth, truer than I anticipated.Wantwas what made me submit my beloved manuscript.Wantwas what broke me at fourteen and crushed me at eighteen.
“I don’t see an alternative,” he finally replied.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Teddy would never understand that life was better—safer—in the black and white.
I swallowed thickly and said, “I’m going to Gulliver’s Books.”
It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but somewhere deep down, a tiny spark emerged when he followed me anyway.
The bell chimed as we entered—the only sound allowed in the shop aside from hushed murmurs and the occasional creaking of floorboards. Joe, Gulliver’s Books’ equally stoic owner, could frequently be found with his nose in a novel while impossibly perched atop his rolling ladder, or behind the register wielding a cup of something hot.
Summoned by the door, he emerged from behind the velvet curtain, glasses partially fogged from the steam of his teacup. Joe offered me a graceful nod and drifted into the nearby autobiographical section, the silver in his black braids momentarily catching the light before he vanished around the corner.
Teddy trailed behind me as I ascended the stairs to the loft-style second floor, the section Joe allotted for the romances across all genres.
I hovered by the black-paned, arched window that towered over the table of newest releases. My palms traced across the covers, most of which I recognized, some that I’d even published myself. The logo of my old firm stared up at me from several spines. I frowned.
“Is this what you write?” Teddy whispered, shoulder brushing mine as he curiously inspected a pink-and-red book in his hands.
I opened my mouth and immediately snapped it shut.
Becauseyes, I did write romance.
Romance heavily inspired by a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed man that stood far too close for my liking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What?”
Teddy’s brows drew together as he brushed behind me, closer than he needed to be. My heart raced. A thousand half-formed responses clattered through my mind, none of them witty enough to distract the guy currently laser-focused on my next words. I forced my features into something akin to unreadability, shrugging and pretending to thumb through the book in my hands.
“Yes,” I replied, voice thin. “I write romance.”
He grinned. “Tell me about it.”
I wanted to reach for the nearest hardback and smack him over the head. Unfortunately, Joe would never forgive me for the disturbance.
