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“Yeah.” He gives me a tight smile, and my heart aches a bit.
“Tell me more about Declan-not-Homer,” I say. “What’s your favorite book? Do you re-read the ones you really like, or is that just for those of us without a reliable connection to the world wide web? What were your favorite parts of your life back home?”
He chuckles. “That’s a lot of questions.”
“You answer first, then I will.”
* * *
Declan
I smile down at her. I’m always smiling at her—all the fucking time, until my face hurts. With my free hand, I rub at my aching cheek, trying not to let my smile turn into laughing. Trying to breathe deeper so my hands will stop shaking.
I’m kind of surprised I can handle her holding my hand when shit’s like this, but the truth is…I like it. I don’t know why it’s different with Finley. I guess because of how we met—that time inside the burrow.
Despite what she said back there, she doesn’t know me as “Homer.” She can’t imagine what my life is like back home. She doesn’t know who I’m supposed to be. And she doesn’t treat me differently—not like an addict and definitely not like a celebrity.
“I’m gonna have to go with something that’s kind of embarrassing.”
She grins up at me. “Yes?”
“It’s not a board book,” I warn.
She giggles. “But it is a kids’ book. I can sense it.”
“Bullshit. How can you sense it?”
“You’re blushing.” She waves at my face.
I roll my eyes. “Guys don’t blush.” I jab her ribs. “But I know someone who does.”
“Sod off.”
I chuckle.
“Out with it.”
I shake my head and swallow my pride. “I’d really like to say something like The Odyssey. Or Marcel Proust.”
“But…” She’s grinning. Little witch.
I sigh for effect. “But…it’s Harry Fucking Potter.” I watch her face as a gorgeous smile spreads over it.
“Of course it is. They are the best books of our time. It should be on the list with Shakespeare. What house? That’s what I really need to know.”
“What house do you think?” I crook a brow at her, and she crooks hers back as our path narrows and steepens.
“Somewhat difficult to say. I don’t think Slytherin. You’re too kind for that.”
I scoff. “Kind? Me?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m voting against Ravenclaw, although perhaps I shouldn’t, since you can recite poetry.”
“You calling me a Hufflepuff?” I give her a skeptical look, and she laughs. “Actually…perhaps.” She taps her chin. “I’ve narrowed down to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, but I can’t quite sort you. You’re likely too ambitious to be Hufflepuff. And perhaps a bit competitive. You do play games professionally. And I believe you like to win.”
She laughs, and I realize I’m smirking at her.
“The sorting hat says…Gryffindor!”
