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“He choked when you consider how he was good enough to play for the NBA back in his prime,” Oliver says.
Sebastian had played some in college. I, personally, was totally lost when it came to sports. A puppy has more hand eye coordination than I do, and puppies don’t even have hands.
But the Tate brothers? They were all athletic in one way or another. Alec used to play for the NFL until he blew out his knee last year.
“So, you’ll only be here for seven months,” I say.
“Yeah. I need to get back to scouting future locations.” He glances at me, his forehead wrinkled.
There’s something in his expression that’s asking me what I think about that.
Why he cares is a mystery to me. I’m tempted to tell him to stop chasing the world and settle down already. I’m also tempted to say that I’m really glad he’s here, and maybe he’ll like it so much he won’t want to leave.
But I don’t. Remember the whole hamster ball thing?
Because I’m such an expert at expressing my feelings, I change the subject. “The view here is nice.” I point to the wall of windows. A dense forest of pines and Blue Spruce is dotted with bursts of Quaking Aspen groves. I can practically smell the Christmas tree scent from here.
“You’re right. It’s incredible. But this view’s even better.” We’ve reached the end of the walkway. He scans an ID card on a retractable belt clip and opens the door to reveal an office decked out in shades of forest green, mint, and mahogany.
I gasp. Opposite us, another wall of glass showcases the lake. This evening, the water catches the waning sunlight. It’s a dark blue, almost navy, with tinges of pink at the edges of the sand. Longdale Lake never looks the same. There are always subtle differences each and every day, and I have about a thousand photos on my phone to prove it.
“Your office? I’m surprised Sebastian didn’t want this prime space.”
“Oh, his is even bigger. Same view, just one floor above us.” He eyes me curiously again and I wonder why. Can he see the dry shampoo powder residue in my peachalicious hair?
I run my hand through it again as I ooh and aww over all the gadgets he has, like the mechanical paperweight that actually gets up and walks off the paper when you don’t need to weigh it down. It’s literally a walking rock, sleek, not silly like you’d think.
Ridiculous, but so Oliver.
“Let me show you the space we’ve designated as the library,” he says, but then he stops short.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I got you something.” He walks back to his desk drawer and tugs it open.
“I only want it if it’s a walking paperweight.”
He snickers and hefts out a package. It looks heavy. He hands it to me. “Open it.”
He’s brought me little gifts before from places they’ve built their resorts, or places he’s traveled to. Oliver leads a charmed life. And I’m happy for the Tates. I’m reminded again that my idea of a charmed life is eating a convenience portion of pot pie with my sister, Claire, while we watchNew Girlepisodes for the tenth time.
It’s not that I don’t want to travel or even move. Sometimes that seems nice, especially after Oliver sends me a photo of some sophisticated dish in Paris. But I promised my mom I’d take care of Claire, and I can’t bear the thought of leaving the house behind.
I rip open the beige packaging, realizing there’s a layer of bubble wrap protecting it. After finally getting that off—there’s a reason librarians don’t have long nails—I see it’s a book with an exquisite, black brocade cover.
This man knows the way to my heart.
“A coffee table book?” I squeal out the words. It smells old. My favorite kind of book smell. “It’s vintage?” My gaze travels to his and he gives a slight nod.
Did I imagine his swallow just now?
I run my hand over the raised cover and inhale, letting my eyes close briefly.
“Does it pass the book smell test?” he asks.
I nod and inhale again before taking a moment to read the title.Libraries of Italy.I open it, the spine cracking as if it hasn’t been opened in a long time.Not only is it abookall about libraries, but it’s also decades old, published in 1953.
“It shows us what the libraries looked like in Italy in the fifties?” My voice squeaks again.
Seriously, Oliver needs to stop doing this. He needs to stop buying me gifts that make it nearly impossible for another man to compete with.
