Page 63 of Meant to be Mine

“That’s called passion.” She hugged the book to her chest. “This is not for you. You wouldn’t get it.”

I pulled another paperback and flinched. “What the hell?”

She leaned over and looked at the cover. “I’ve read that.”

“You read this? No fireman dresses like that. What’s the point of the coat if he’s naked underneath?”

“He’s got pants on.”

“Pretty sure those abs are airbrushed.”

“Yours are better,” she said.

I looked at the image of the shirtless firefighter, and while I’d love to believe her, she was full of shit.

“What’s this shit about?” I asked.

I flipped the book open to a random page, scanning it with an expression of pure delight before snapping it shut again. “Nope. Not reading that out loud. I don’t think that is anatomically possible.”

She laughed.

And then I remembered she said she read it. “Wait, did you actually read that?”

“I did.” She pulled another book and showed me the cover. “This one, too. Hot.”

“You naughty, naughty girl.”

Her eyes flashed with that flirty glint that had me growing hard in the middle of the musty bookstore. She moved down the row. I followed her, watching as she pulled one title, read the back cover, and put it back on the shelf.

I watched her, and while she was the same person I’d always known, it was like seeing her through a new lens. My best friend is a woman. Duh. I’ve always known that, but there’s always been a veil over my eyes. I always viewed her as a pal, not a lover.

And now I know both sides of the whole person. I know her. The more I know, the more I fall for her.

“Oh, I didn’t know this one was out yet,” she said.

“Let’s get it. You can read it to me.”

She giggled. “Oh no. This is not the book I’m reading with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because when I read it, I’m going to blush. I’m not reading it with you. This is the kind of book best enjoyed alone.”

“You make it sound like porn.”

She gave me a look that made my eyes go wide. “Kensey!”

“Don’t judge me. I spend a lot of time alone.”

And I was a horrible friend because that made me happy. If she was alone, she was not with another man.

I snatched the book she was reading. “No,” I said. “Vampire?”

“Stop.” She shooed me away. “Go read your little detective novels. I’m sure Harlen Coben has something new.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Your reading choices are that of an old man that smokes cigars,” she said.