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“That’s my job.”
“I understand your need to get excited over it. But at the end of the day, it’s still only a book, Maris.”
“Not to me it isn’t.” She spoke softly and a bit shyly. “When I really love a book, the characters become real to me. I think it stems from losing my mother at such an early age. I needed people around me, so the princes and princesses I read about became my adopted brothers and sisters.
“I lived in palaces and on pirate ships. I climbed mountain peaks and hacked my way through dark jungles. Captain Nemo’s submarine became as familiar to me as my own bedroom. The characters in my books took me along on their adventures. I laughed and cried with them. I was involved in their lives. I was privy to all their secrets. I knew their hopes and dreams as well as their fears. They became like family.”
She straightened a bent corner of one of the manuscript pages and gave a small, self-conscious, self-deprecating shrug. “I suppose that passion for fiction carried over into adulthood.”
For several ponderous moments, she kept her head down. Eventually she looked across at him. He leaned toward her and spoke very softly. “If you can get that turned on by a book, I’d like to know what else you have a passion for.”
She knew exactly what he was thinking. Their minds were moving along the same track. He could see it in the way her eyes turned smoky and hear it in the catch of her breath.
“The f word turns me on,” she whispered.
“The f word?”
“Food.”
He threw back his head and laughed. It rumbled up out of his chest and felt so good it startled him. For the first time in years, his laughter was spontaneous. It wasn’t tinged with bitterness and cynicism.
She fired a fake pistol at him. “Gotcha.”
“I concede. You’re hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Mike will never forgive me for being such a rotten host. I suppose I can put together some sort of meal, but you have to help.”
“Lead on.”
They moved into the kitchen and, working side by side, assembled BLTs. “Avocado?” he asked, as he set the microwave to cook the bacon strips.
“Yum.”
“You have to peel it. Mike says I can’t do it without bruising it.”
“One thing I like about you, Parker—”
“Only one?”
“—is that you own up to your shortcomings.”
“Well, there are so few of them, I can afford to be humble.” She threw a Frito at him.
They ate the chips out of the bag and pickles straight from the jar. “Different from what you’re used to, isn’t it?” he asked around a mouthful.
“Obviously you have me confused with a pampered, spoiled brat.”
“No,” he replied honestly. “You work too hard to fit that description.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re dedicated.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You get the job done.”
