Chapter 9
LANDON
Dean and I were in the middle of a conversation about our favorite book series when the light overhead flipped off.
We both glanced up, then around the shop, and realized that half the lights in the place were off. One of the baristas was flipping the switch for the neon open sign, and another had just come out of the back with a broom.
She smiled at us. “Not to bother you two, but we are closing up.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful, or horrified. They were closed, and we were still sitting there.
Dean, on the other hand, grinned and stood. “Thanks. Sorry for keeping you.”
The guy who’d been turning off the sign scoffed. “You didn’t. We just figured we’d work around you till we had to lock up. Can’t get in the way of a first date going that well.”
I flushed and ducked my head, but . . . but it was, wasn’t it?
We’d been sitting in a coffee shop for, well, hours. I didn’t even know how long it had been.
“Let’s walk,” Dean said holding out a hand to me. “I know just the place we should go.”
“There’s a great Italian place on the corner,” the woman singsonged behind us.
The guy waved her off. “Netflix and takeout for the win. Who wants an audience for a date?”
I had the distinct feeling that Dean didn’t mind an audience in most situations. Not—not that I was suggesting he was an exhibitionist. Just, he was a musician. Who played and sang in front of people. My worst nightmare was karaoke, where everyone would hear just how terrible my singing voice was.
My singing was for shower use only.
Still, Dean was holding out a hand to me, and . . . everything so far had been right. Sure, we were very different in a lot of ways, like our tolerance for people staring at us and judging, but there was so much else that was the same, and more than that, perfect.
We liked the same movies and music and books. We enjoyed talking about them in the same ways. Everything had just been . . . easy.
Easy in a way it had never been for me before.
With Geoff, I’d struggled to keep conversations going. I’d tried too damn hard not to talk too much about things he obviously didn’t care about, even though it had meant conversations about varieties of sportsball I knew nothing about. I’d spent a lot of time worried I had been “weird.”
Now, though?
Every time I got effusive over a new book or show, Dean just smiled and nodded and continued the conversation. Even the things he didn’t know, he seemed enthused to try. Interested to hear my opinion.
And also, just like me, he could talk about the minutiae for hours. The possible meanings of opaque song lyrics. The reasons and tells for plot twists in books and movies and shows.
The whole afternoon had been perfect. Coffee and conversation and no weird awkward lulls. No declarations that one of us had no idea or interest in what the other was talking about.
When we got outside, even as I heard the barista locking the door behind us and cringed again at the idea we’d inconvenienced them in any way, Dean squeezed my hand and turned to walk down the street, not just like he hadn’t felt a second’s embarrassment, but like he knew exactly where to go.
I didn’t hesitate to follow him.
We walked the maze of downtown streets that I’d have never been able to remember without help—worst-case scenario, I figured I’d have to summon myself a rideshare to find my way home.
Ten minutes later, when he finally slowed to a stop in a spot that wasn’t a crosswalk with a red light, it was . . . it was a bookstore.
I almost melted right where I stood.
I hadn’t dated much in my life. A small handful of guys, most of the relationships short and awkward.
Never had I even imagined one taking me to a bookstore on a date.
A bookstore.
“We were talking about those tarot-inspired books, so I thought you might want to look at them. And I should get the first book in that other series, with the wizard and the cat.”
I grinned over at him, feeling like a kid on Christmas morning.
“That sounds amazing. And you should. Also, the dragon riders. You’ll like that.”
He winked at me. “Well who hasn’t dreamed of riding a dragon now and then?”
And then I almost melted for an entirely different reason.
He tugged me into the store, and it was beautiful. Brightly lit and full of books, what more could a person ask for? We located the many series we’d been discussing, and it branched out into discussions of other things on the shelves that we had—or hadn’t—enjoyed, and why.
This time, Dean would occasionally check his watch, like he didn’t want to accidentally shut down the store again. I couldn’t blame him for that.
Still, we were standing in the middle of the mystery section—the last one we hadn’t been all the way through—and when he glanced at his watch, he stopped and scowled.
Then he huffed a sigh. “I guess we should probably check out. But that Italian place the barista mentioned is probably open till at least ten. We could have dinner?”
The word “no” didn’t even occur to me. Why would anyone ever say that?
“Sounds amazing.”
As though to punctuate, my stomach grumbled aloud, and I cringed. Dean laughed, grabbing my hand in his once more as he led me up to the front to check out.
Before I could say anything or offer to buy the books I’d recommended to him, he grabbed everything out of my arms and dropped our haul on the counter, then handed the cashier a credit card.
But . . . wasn’t he a singer? Shouldn’t I be the one paying?
I’d always paid with Geoff, if only because he’d complained about how “uneven” his paychecks were, even though as I’d found out later, he had never worked on a commission basis.
But Dean sorted our books into stacks, helped the cashier bag them, and turned to me, holding out the bag with mine in it. “Now, fettuccine?”
“As long as there’s garlic bread, I’m in,” I agreed.
He quirked a brow. “Garlic bread, huh?”
“I mean, what kind of monster doesn’t love garlic bread?”
He considered for less than a second, then gave me a goofy smile. “Vampires, obviously.”
Then as we left the store, instead of taking my hand again, he wrapped his arm around me, laying his hand on my waist and pulling my body against his.
Sometime while we were in the bookstore, it had gotten dark outside.
How had that happened?
As we turned to walk toward the restaurant, I heard a buzz and click behind me, and when I turned to look, the woman who’d just sold us our books was in the process of turning off the open sign in the bookstore window.
I blinked in shock for a moment, and as I turned back to our walk, wondered just how late the Italian restaurant was open.