“I am wounded by your accusation.” I put a hand over my heart. “Truly wounded.”
“You’ll survive.” But she was laughing now, that bright, genuine laugh that always made me feel like I’d won something. “Fine, come on then. What kind of books do you think you’d like?”
She came around the counter and gestured for me to follow her into the stacks. I fell into step behind her, trying very hard not to notice the way her jeans fit or the way her hair smelled like honey.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something with adventure? Action?”
“So basically you want a book that reads like an action film.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Not at all. Reading should be fun.” She tapped a finger to her mouth. “I’m thinking historical fiction. Give you some adventure but also trick you into learning something.”
“Sneaky.”
She stopped in front of a shelf and ran her fingers along the spines, searching for something. I drank in the sight of her in her element—surrounded by books, completely at ease, a small furrow of concentration between her brows that I always wanted to kiss.
This was what I wanted. Not just the romance, not justthe kissing and the rest of it—though God knew I wanted that too. I wantedthis. The easy banter. The comfortable silence. The privilege of watching her exist in the world and knowing I got to be part of it.And that she enjoys me being here.
“Here.” She pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to me. “Start with this. It’s got shipwrecks, sword fights, buried treasure, and enough historical accuracy to make you feel like you’ve accomplished something.”
I looked at the cover. “Treasure Island?”
“A classic for a reason. And don’t give me that look. Have you actually read it?”
“I saw the film.”
“The Muppet version doesn’t count.”
“It was not the Muppet version.” It was absolutely the Muppet version. “Fine. I’ll read it. But only because you recommended it.”
“I’m honored.”
We stood there, the book between us, and the air shifted. The playful energy was still there, but underneath it, something else hummed—that current that was always running between us, the one we both pretended not to notice. Or at least, I hoped we both pretended not to notice.
Ask her. Now. Before you lose your nerve.
“Agnes.” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
Her smile faltered, something wary creeping into her eyes. “Graham...”
“Have dinner with me.”
The words hung in the air.
Agnes went very still.
“Dinner,” she repeated.
“Aye. You and me. Real conversation and a bottle of wine between us.” I met her eyes and held up the book. “I’m told it’s what refined people do.”
“We eat together all the time.”
“Eating at the pub while I work is not a date, Agnes, and you well know that.” I took a step closer, close enough to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. “One dinner, Agnes. Just to see...”
“To see what?”
If there’s still something left between us. If what I feel is real. If you feel it too.
