Page 42 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Another nod from Pascal before he turns for the elevator.

“Her books,” I blurt.

Pascal freezes, turns back, eyebrows lifted.

“River needs her books,” I tell him. “She’s halfway through the one on her coffee table and has a stack next to her bed she’s going to read next. She needs all of them.”

River jerks. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t?—”

“And she has a case with DVDs next to her TV,” I say. “She needs that too.”

Pascal glances at me, nods. “One of the guys will bring them by later.”

“Really, I?—”

He leaves before she can finish her protest.

“Thorn,” she says on a sigh when the elevator doors slide closed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Whether or not you stay here, you’ll still need your things.” I turn, hold her eyes. “You’ll still want to read your books, watch your movies.”

“I can read on my phone, watch movies on your TV.”

“But they’re not your movies. Not your books.”

She stops, stares at me.

I wait for her to argue further.

Instead, her expression goes inscrutable for one long moment. Then she walks over to me, presses her fingertips to my jaw. “Thank you,” she whispers, lifting on tiptoe and bussing her lips over my cheek.

She drops back down onto her heels then smiles up at me. “Can I borrow your phone?”

Feeling that brush of her lips down to my very soul, I take a beat to make sense of her words. Then, making a mental note to buy her a replacement phone, I pull mine out of my pocket, unlock it the screen, and hand it to her.

Something passes through her eyes so quickly I can’t read it clearly.

Maybe it’s mischief. Maybe it’s softness.

Maybe it’s affection.

All I do know is that it’s fucking beautiful.

She hits several buttons on the screen, lifts the phone to her ear and I hear her say, “Pascal?”

I jerk.

“There’s a container of cookies next to the microwave. Can you bring that too?” Her smile is bright. “Thanks!” She hangs up, passes me back my phone. “Thanks, honey,” she murmurs, that bright, amazing smile pointed at me.

And as I’m reeling from that, she picks up the bag of clothes.

Then turns and disappears down the hall.

“Your entire pantry is alphabetized?” she asks, her tone aghast as she surveys the contents.

I glance up from my laptop. “What other way would it be?”

I gave in on the cooking part only because River made a compelling case for it being the best way for her to take her mind of what’s happening.