Not Quite by the Book

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Davis arrived after work with Violet, a pizza, hot wings, and a six-pack of locally brewed and bottled hard cider, and a small leatherbound copy of Jane Eyre .

We sat on the floor in socked feet, eating off paper plates and talking like two kids in a college dorm room while watching the UMass away game on the ancient television in the sitting room. The coffee table was littered with napkins and empty cider bottles. Jane Eyre sat on the carpet between us.

“This is my favorite,” I said during a commercial, tapping one finger against the book’s beautifully floral cover. “How’d you know?”

He wiped his mouth on a napkin and shrugged. “I’m glad you like it. It’s part of a Cranford Collection. I thought of you immediately when I saw it. You and all the flowers you’ve been planting.”

“I absolutely love it.” In fact, the gesture warmed my heart a little too much, so I went for another wing. “Tell me all about the interview today.” He’d hit the highlights while attempting to find the game but quieted quickly at kickoff. I’d read the article twice after I finished texting with Annie and marveled each time.

In the piece, Davis spoke about the preservation of history and his love for Hearthstone Manor with sheer joy and reverence. He was clearly doing exactly what he’d been called to do.

“Everyone at the office was talking about it,” Davis said. “So, Dad was seething, but couldn’t say any of the things he wanted. Instead, he clapped me on the back and smiled.”

I laughed. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

“It was pretty incredible. Now that everyone in our world associates me with this place, it’ll be impossible for Dad to try to steal it or otherwise ruin things for me without tarnishing his reputation.”

I reached for my cider and took a long, satisfied swig.

“Today was a good day. Tomorrow will be even better.” Davis worked his brows. “How are you feeling about your big date?”

“Thankful that you agreed to go with me,” I said. “Everyone back home is worried I’m walking into the next episode of Unsolved Mysteries .”

He snorted and stretched his long legs out before the fire. “You’re safe with me, Rini. Any guesses about who you’re meeting?”

I took another wing from the pile. The hot and spicy sauce burned my tongue and throat in a gloriously savory way. “Assuming he doesn’t stuff me into an unmarked van and drive away, I’m sure whoever it is will be fine.”

Davis arched his brows. “ Fine doesn’t sound like you’re very excited to meet this mystery man. Are the letters creepy? Does he give stalker vibes?”

“No.” I bristled, ready to defend my admirer, even to my clueless crush. “He’s sweet,” I said. “Kind and genuine. He’s compassionate and bookish. He sees me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt seen by anyone other than Cecily.”

“I see you,” Davis said, setting his bottle aside and fixing me with the full weight of his smoldering gaze.

My breath caught, and I swallowed hard. Suddenly the silly thought I’d had in class about dating Paul seemed downright absurd, and the possibility my longtime friend and current admirer might be Michael made me want to cry. The only man I wanted sat right in front of me, close enough to hold and beg to see things my way.

The flicker of hope diminished as a new thought came to mind. Davis was right here. He’d confessed all sorts of personal things to me. We’d regained a strong footing after an earlier fallout. If he had feelings for me, why not say so? I’d kissed him once, so he knew I wouldn’t reject him, if that were his fear. But I couldn’t imagine Davis fearing anything. Look at all he’d overcome.

I wet my lips as the silence grew suffocating. What I’d told Mom was true. I couldn’t force what I wanted into reality. “You claim to know everyone,” I said, refreshing my smile. “Help me figure out who he is.”

He relaxed by a fraction, lips twitching on one side.

“We can make it a game,” I suggested. “I’ll guess too.”

Davis twisted the cap off a new bottle. “Pretty sure you have the advantage here, because I have no idea who you talk to every day.”

I fought the urge to ask “Is it you?” How ridiculous would I feel if I were wrong? How awkward would I make things for Davis? Wait! I scolded internally. Stop forcing. “You have hometown advantage. You start.”

He heaved a laborious sigh, attention jumping to the television as refs argued a penalty on UMass. “He writes in calligraphy, right?”

I nodded, thrilled by his willingness to play along.

“So, he’s clearly a giant nerd.”

“What?” I wrinkled my nose in faux offense. “Be real.”

The slow slide of his eyes in my direction made it clear he was being very real.

“There’s nothing wrong with perfect penmanship,” I argued. “I think it’s nice.”

“It’s calligraphy,” he said. “You be real.”

“You’re trying to make it sound dumb.”

“Didn’t have to try,” he said, taking another pull from his bottle.

I watched him, trying to puzzle out a solid comeback to defend my admirer’s honor. “I think uncommon interests are cool. It probably means he’s deep.”

“Agreed. Right now, for example, he’s probably deep in his mom’s basement, watching documentaries.”

“No.” I laughed, and it doubled me over. The silly, rumbling laughter kept coming until I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t stop and my lungs cried for air.

Davis’s lips twitched, but he refused to smile. “Your turn to guess.”

I wiped tears from my eyes and set my plate aside. “Fine. I think there’s a small chance it’s Michael, but I’m not sure.” I held my breath as I waited for his response.

Davis stared at the screen. “Do you want it to be him?”

I looked away. “No. But I would like to know if he’s the one using the Historically_Bookish handle. That mystery is killing me.”

“Why?”

My eyes met his again, and I willed him to confess he was my friend and admirer. “Because Historically_Bookish is important to me. I hate that I don’t know who they are. Plus, whoever wrote those letters didn’t take the task lightly. Maybe they’re the kind of person who’d spend just as much time and effort on all the things that matter.”

A deadpan expression crossed his handsome face, and a shadow of doubt shaded my little flame of hope. “I bet the dexterity and small motor skills used in calligraphy are important in tying complicated knots—around your wrists—so he can keep you in his mother’s basement.”

I wadded a paper napkin and threw it at his face. “I’ll bet he’s incredibly smart.”

“That only means the cops will never find you.”

I hopped onto my feet and carried our plates and napkins to the kitchen, laughing and wiping tears onto my sleeve. “You’re ridiculous.”

Davis collected an armload of our bottles and followed.

I tossed the trash and washed my hands while he lined the empties on the counter for recycling. When I turned back, he was watching me intently. “Seriously, I like the way his letters make me feel,” I admitted softly. “I know I came here to swear off love, but that’s not who I am. I want to believe romance is alive and anything is possible.”

Davis leaned in my direction, and his soft gray gaze lowered to my lips. He raised a hand gently to my face, and I gripped the counter beside us in case I swooned. “Your hair is—”

I let my eyes fall shut as he swept his thumb against the corner of my mouth, dislodging a piece of hair that had adhered to my skin on dried hot sauce. “Ugh.” My lids jerked open. “Oh, gross.” I cringed and reeled back. “I’ve been sitting in there with food on my face?”

Why was my life like this?

Davis caught me by one wrist, his lips parted in amusement. “It’s just hot sauce.”

I stilled, and our breath mingled. The familiar electric charge of his nearness swept through me, along with memories of his kiss.

“Emma,” he whispered. “I think—”

Violet barked and broke the spell. Her nails danced merrily across the kitchen floor, and a low, desperate howl raised the rafters.

Davis released me, turning swiftly to quiet his sweet dog.

Violet stood on hind legs at the back door, whimpering and whining as I gathered my marbles and flipped the light switch, bathing the yard in a burst of light.

A pack of little fuzzy shadows bounced into the cover of trees beyond.

From the sitting room, a sports announcer called, “Touchdown, Huskies!”

Davis’s disappointed sigh matched mine.

Our Minutemen weren’t the only ones having a complicated night.

On my front porch, just after midnight, I couldn’t stop myself from hugging Davis goodbye. To my delight, he set his chin atop my head and held me gently for one precious moment. Then he whispered, “I hope your secret admirer is exactly who you want him to be,” and I felt my eyes sting with tears.

Because wasn’t that the same as saying he had no idea who it was?

I arrived early at Village Books the next day, eager to take a slow, contemplative look at all the men in my class—and one, specifically, who wasn’t a fellow student but worked the cash register. I sat at the long table, facing the store and front door.

“You’re lost in thought,” Daisy said, sliding onto the seat beside mine. She set a disposable cup on the table, a curl of sweet-scented steam rising from the top.

I forced a smile, tuning into the moment at hand. “Just thinking about what to write,” I fibbed. “How about you? Do you have a plan for today?”

“I’m writing to my professor to beg for a second chance on my last written assignment,” she said. “I really blew it, and my academic scholarships turn to dust if my grades drop.”

“I’m sorry.” I set a hand on her shoulder, and she tipped her head to lean on it briefly.

“Thanks. Are you really thinking about writing letters?”

I wrinkled my nose. Busted. “Do you ever get any letters that aren’t signed?”

“Like, intentionally?” She slumped in her seat and rested her chin on her hands. “No. Why? Have you?”

I pressed my lips into a tight line and scanned the room for prying eyes or ears. Then I matched her posture and lowered my voice. “Have you ever gotten any letters written in perfect calligraphy?”

Daisy’s brows rose.

“No,” Daisy answered. “Why?”

Paul came into view before I could respond. “Hey, Emma, Daisy,” he said, strolling over with a wide smile.

I bit the insides of my cheeks, wondering again if it could be Paul.

Daisy rose and meandered toward the refreshments table, where Paul unloaded a box of pastries from a logoed bag. “Aww. You brought breakfast.”

“Danishes,” he said.

“Ever take any calligraphy classes?” Daisy asked.

I imagined thunking my head onto the desk but stayed strong.

He cast her a goofy look. “I have. About twenty years ago, the middle school art instructor insisted on teaching calligraphy. Every Amherst native between thirty and forty-five can probably still manage some pretty decent basics.” He tipped his head curiously. “Are you looking to learn?”

“Just curious,” she said, resuming her seat. “I have a heavy enough course load already.”

“Let me know if you ever want a crash course,” he said. And for the first time, I noticed the fountain pen Grace gave classmates tucked into the spiral of his notebook. He hadn’t used it on the letters he’d left for me with his signature, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have written others.