Chapter 6 Clark
SIX
CLARK
"Do you want to come up for coffee?" We were approaching Turning Pages. "Real coffee. Not the sugar water they were serving at the convention."
We’d missed our coffee date but had a convention one instead.
I glanced up at the windows above the bookstore and at the gauzy curtains that let in the light. He probably didn't invite people into his private space very often.
"I'd like that." I tried to keep my tone even as my heart sped up. I longed to drag him into my arms and stick my tongue down his throat. But that wasn’t Flynn. If I did that, he might shove me out the door and send a lawyer’s letter saying I had to stay at least a hundred yards from his store at all times.
He led me around to a side entrance and pulled out a set of keys. "Fair warning." We climbed a narrow staircase. "It's not much and it probably smells like books."
"I like books and I doubt your apartment is anything less than organized.”
Flynn's soft laugh drifted back to me. "I’m not sure about that."
The apartment was small but not cramped with exposed brick walls and those same tall windows I’d looked at that overlooked the street.
Books were everywhere. Not just on shelves, but stacked on the coffee table and the windowsill.
It should have been cluttered, but instead it was lived-in and comfortable as though Flynn had built himself a nest out of stories.
"This is amazing.” I was still in my Peter Pan costume and probably looked ridiculous. "It's like a literary cave."
"That's one way to put it." Flynn moved into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. "You can sit anywhere that doesn't have books on it. Which is... the couch, I think."
I settled onto the sofa, noting the paperback on the side table. "What are you reading?"
Flynn glanced over from the kitchen. "Poetry. Probably not your thing."
"You don't know what my thing is.” I picked up the book and flipped through it. "Though you're right, I'm more of a prose person but I’m familiar with this poet.”
“You’re full of surprises."
The coffee maker gurgled in the background but we studied each other. I took in the sharp line of Flynn's jaw and his gray eyes. Without the bookstore counter between us or the havoc of the convention, the space was very intimate.
"I should probably change out of this costume.
" But as soon as I said that I wished I could take it back.
He would either think I wanted to go home or that I was going to strip naked in his living room and demand sex.
Yikes! If I was honest, I did want sex. But it was too soon.
We were only at the coffee and convention stage.
Flynn's shy glance had me wanting to squeeze his hand. Or plant a kiss on his lips. "I have some clothes that might fit you."
It was an unusual offer because the idea of wearing a host’s clothes and smelling like him, especially a person you were fond of, should only come after you’d slept together. We were far from that.
"That would be great. These boots are killing me."
He disappeared down a short hallway and returned with a pair of jeans and a sweater. "Bathroom's first door on the left."
His bathroom was as meticulously organized as the rest of his space, but it was the small details that caught my attention. The expensive shampoo that I sniffed and smelled like pine and rain and the single toothbrush in a ceramic holder that I was certain was handmade.
Flynn's clothes fit better than I expected. The sweater was so soft against my skin and carried that clean aroma that I was beginning to associate with safety.
When I emerged from the bathroom, he was curled into one corner of the couch with two mugs of coffee on the side table, more relaxed than I'd ever seen him. He'd changed into jeans and a dark blue henley that made his eyes look almost green.
"Better?" he asked as I settled onto the other end of the couch.
"Much. Though I have to say, you look different too. More..." I searched for the right word. “At ease.”
"It's the home field advantage." He handed me a mug. "And the lack of people trying to sell me things."
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic. "The convention was a lot. But you seemed to enjoy parts of it."
"I did." Flynn sounded almost surprised by his own admission. "Mrs. Chancellor was nice. And watching you work that crowd was... educational."
"Educational how?"
He was quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee. “I wish I could connect to people as easily as you do.”
“You do when you’re talking about books."
"Books are different. They don't expect you to be something you're not."
His voice contained a vulnerability that had me wanting to reach across the space between us and comfort him. He needed a hand on his arm at the very least or a hug. Instead, I stayed where I was.
"People don't either, if you give them a chance. Most people, anyway."
Flynn looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "Is that what you think I should do? Give people more chances?"
"I think you should do whatever makes you happy. But you're selling yourself short if you think you're not good with people. You were great with those kids at the reading. And Mrs. Chancellor adores you."
"She buys a lot of books."
I set my coffee mug down on the table and turned to face him. "She lit up when she saw you. That wasn't about books. It was about you."
We sat in silence for a while, the afternoon light shifting across the walls as the sun moved lower. I studied his fingers curved around the mug and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
"Can I ask you something?" he asked.
"Anything." Was this where he asked if I had a boyfriend? Or if he could kiss me? I didn’t think so but he was full of surprises.
"Why children's books? You could probably write for any age group."
I considered the question, trying to find a way to explain my reasoning. "Because kids still believe in magic. They haven't learned yet that the world is supposed to be ordinary. They don't question whether dragons are real. They just want to know if the dragon is happy."
His eyes were fixed on my face. "And the dragon in your story is happy?”
"He is by the end," I assured him. "Once he learns that sharing stories doesn't mean losing them.”
"Doesn't it, though?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Connection always comes with risk."
"Everything worthwhile comes with risk. The question is whether the risk is worth what you might gain."
His eyes dropped to my lips for just a second before flicking back up.
"Clark." My name sounded different in his voice.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not... I'm not good at this. At whatever this is."
"You don't have to be good at it." I leaned closer. "You just have to be honest about what you want."
His hand was resting on the couch cushion between us and I reached out and covered it with mine. He trembled but he didn't pull away.
"I want..." His voice trailed away. "There’s so much about me you don’t know."
"Everyone has secrets."
He turned his hand over so our palms were touching and his fingers threaded through mine. His touch sent warmth shooting up my arm and my skin tingled.
"You're trouble." He grinned.
"The best kind, I hope."
He responded with a smile. "Definitely the best."
We stayed with our hands linked and talked about books and writing and the small details of our lives.
He told me about inheriting the bookstore from a family member and how in the early days he'd nearly run it into the ground before figuring out what he was doing.
I spoke of my published books and the rejection letters I'd kept in a shoebox as motivation.
When he finally walked me to the door, we lingered on the threshold. I didn’t want the evening to end. But if I knew anything about this man, it was that pushing him too fast and too soon, would have him retreating.
"Thank you." He still held my hand. "For today."
"Thank you for letting me see your world.”
He nodded, and for a moment I thought he would kiss me. Instead, he straightened the collar of his sweater that I was still wearing.
"Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
After putting on my Peter Pan boots, I walked home through the quiet streets. When I looked back at the apartment above Turning Pages, he was silhouetted in the window, watching me. I gave a half wave which was kinda awkward, and strode toward home.