Chapter 15Ethan
Chapter 15
Ethan
When I arrive in the kitchen, Amy is standing at the counter, bathed in the soft morning light, munching on a piece of toast. The light is catching highlights in her hair, and as she turns to look at me, her face lifts into a smile that takes my breath away.
“Morning,” I say as I make a beeline for the coffee pot, telling myself for the hundredth time that she's just my friend, and nothing more.
“Good morning, Mav,” she replies brightly, and yeah, my heart skips a beat.
So much for being just friends.
“Want one?” I ask as I pull a mug from one of the kitchen cabinets.
“That would be lovely. What will we do with our free morning? I've never really had time off from a job, and I'm excited to see what it's like.”
I measure out the coffee and place it in the dispenser, trying not to smile that she intends to spend her morning with me. “You've never had time off?”
“Not really. Not like this, anyway. In my line of work, we're always ‘on.’ Having an entire morning stretched out in front of me with nothing that I have to do and nowhere to be feels rather indulgent.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, because these days, I do. It’s hard to get real downtime when you’re known, and people want a piece of you. It’s hard to get the mental space sometimes.
I make the coffee, the pot gurgling as the mixture of water and grounds coalesce into a piping hot dark brown liquid. “We can do whatever we want to do. No climbing trees, though.”
“But wasn’t that fun?”
“Fun” isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe the feeling of her in my arms, the way my heartrate picked up, and how I haven’t been able to push her from my mind ever since.
I pass her a mug and notice her nails. “You’ve got orange fingernails, and are those tiny spiders I see?”
She holds her hand up to inspect it as though surprised that she has such fingernails. “I know it's not Halloween, but I've always had a hankering to have orange nails with spiders and spiderwebs all over them. I bought a kit to do them yesterday. My mother would not approve.” Her face is lit up, and I can tell she's enjoying breaking another one of her family’s rules. “I'm not supposed to eat while standing up, either.” She holds up her toast and takes another bite from it. “Cheers!”
“You're on fire today. As always.”
“ Every day, Mav. Every single day,” she replies, her eyes dancing, and it's as though the force of her gaze has reached inside and tugged at my heart, my belly swooping.
Amy’s enthusiasm for life is much like a puppy encountering snow for the first time, and it's impossible not to get swept up in it.
I can't think about her as anything other than my friend and temporary housemate. If she feels anything for me, it's as a friend. Nothing more. I should be happy with that. With the life I lead these days, I never know whether someone is genuine about wanting to get close to me. But with Amy there's no artifice. No secondary goal. She likes being around me and I like being around her.
That's got to be enough for me, although fighting these growing feelings I have for her is not getting any easier.
I take a sip of my coffee and lean back against the counter, faking casual. “I’ve got an idea. Let's go explore the town some more. I saw a bookstore not far from the café. Want to go check it out?”
Her beautiful brown eyes widen. “You like to read? Maverick, I never knew this about you.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I'm a multifaceted human being.”
She giggles. “Looks and brains. You, my friend, are the total package. Let's do it.”
The compliment sparks hope in my chest, and I wash it away with a sip of my coffee.
After we've both eaten breakfast and gotten dressed we walk into the town. Amy was right, it's a beautiful morning, and I enjoy the sun on my face and the relaxed and easy vibe we have between us.
We wander past Francine’s, where the owner herself is chatting with a couple of women outside. She smiles and waves at us as we pass by.
“Pierre told me about The Festival of Lake Lights they’re having here soon.”
“I bet he did,” I grumble.
“Do you know about it?”
“Yeah, one of the regulars told me. They release these lanterns out onto the lake, hundreds of them.”
“You’re very sweet to give your time to the regulars the way you do.”
I shrug. “It’s one of the things I enjoy about working at Francine’s. The people are real, you know?”
She smiles at me. “I love that about it, too.”
We reach the bookstore. It’s painted dark blue with a sign above the door called Forgotten Tales, written in bold gold letters. Its door is flanked by tables holding paperbacks and hardcovers, some neatly arranged, others in messy piles.
“Mav, this place is amazing!” Amy exclaims.
“I hoped you’d like it. Wanna go in?”
“Are you mad? Of course I do!”
I stand back for her to step inside, where the books are stacked high on wooden shelves, packed in like someone’s been hoarding them for years. The air has that distinctive
“new book” smell, that aroma that hits you as you open a book for the first time, the promise of something wonderful inside.
It’s got that cozy, somewhat chaotic vibe that makes me want to spend some time in here, much like my sister, Emmy’s bookstore back in Maple Falls. I feel instantly at home.
The elderly proprietor, a man who looks like a total grandpa cliché with his thinning gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and glasses balanced on his nose, greets us in Malveauxian. Amy responds, looping her arm through mine, and I catch the names “Amy” and “Maverick” as she speaks.
“My name is Jeremiah Bellamy. Welcome to my shop.” He gestures around at the packed shelves with obvious pride.
Amy responds in Malveauxian.
He turns to me. “Ah, you are American,” he says in English.
I hold my hands up. “Guilty as charged, sir. You’ve got a fantastic store here.”
“Thank you, thank you, young man. I opened this shop when I myself was young, when my hair was dark and my goal was to read every book that came through my door.”
“And did you?” I ask.
Jeremiah Bellamy flicks his wrist in dismissal. “I was young and foolish. Now, I remember only the best stories. Do you know what my favorite stories are?”
“Do tell us, Mr. Bellamy,” Amy says, and I'm struck afresh by how genuinely interested she is in hearing what people have to say. She treats everyone the same, even Pierre the lecherous skunk, with his completely unnecessary flirting and long, lingering looks.
Yup, he still gets under my skin.
“My favorite stories are love stories, and I can tell by the look of you that you are very much in love,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I choke on absolutely nothing as my brain short-circuits as though I've just been asked to perform Shakespeare in ancient Greek.
Very much in love?
The words bounce around my skull.
“Oh, we're not—” I begin, my voice strangled, and at the exact same time Amy says, “We’re just friends, Mr. Bellamy.”
I glance at Amy. She’s grinning like this is some sort of fun joke, holding onto my arm as though it’s no big deal.
Me? My heartrate has jumped to an alarming speed, and I’ve got heat creeping up my neck, threatening my cheeks.
Seriously? I’m blushing now?
I’ve literally filmed love scenes with several of Hollywood's most beautiful women without breaking a sweat, but here I am, blushing like an uptight Victorian maiden at the thought of being in love with Amy.
That’s not to say I can’t imagine falling in love with Amy. Far from it. She’s got so many of the qualities I want, and a few more to boot. I love the way she’s so fun and energetic and full of wonder at the world. I love the way her face lights up when faced with even the most mundane of everyday tasks, as though it’s all so new and exciting for her. Of course, she’s also gorgeous and hot as heck, but in a totally unmanufactured, un-Hollywood way that makes her even more beautiful to me.
She’s the full package, that’s for sure—and totally out of bounds.
Mr. Bellamy waves away our protests with a wrinkled hand. “The eyes never lie, even when the mouth protests.”
“Is that a quote from a famous book? Because that’s what we’re here for. Right, Amy? Books,” I say, searching for a way to move on from this awkward conversation, stat.
Amy giggles beside me. Apparently, she finds my discomfort entertaining.
Pull it together, Roberts. You play a warlord. You can handle one elderly bookshop owner with romantic delusions.
“Just friends,” he repeats in the same tone as someone saying “affordable housing in Los Angeles,” aka he doesn’t believe us for one second. His eyes sparkle with mischief, his knowing smile smug. “Of course you are.”
I slip my arm from Amy’s to show her just how unflustered I am, throw her a smile and tell her, “I’m gonna go see what English books are in the store.”
“English books are this way,” Mr. Bellamy says as he directs me to the back of the store. “We have travel books, biographies, some business books, and, most importantly, romance.”
Oh, good grief.
“Thank you, sir,” I say as I aim for the corner of the store.
Why am I reacting like this? He jumped to the wrong conclusion and now I'm having an existential crisis about the status of mine and Amy's relationship? She's right: we ARE just friends. Friends who met in a costume shop and now share a house on a lake in a place named after dreams. A totally normal friendship foundation.
I peruse the shelves, reading the spines of the books and pulling the occasional one out to flick through its pages. I look up and watch as Amy picks up a book and runs her fingers along the spine. Her face is lit up like Times Square on New Year's Eve when she discovers something interesting.
“Mav!” she calls out, and I wish I didn't want to run to her.
Which of course I do.
“Whatcha got there?”
She holds up a book with a title in what I bet is Malveauxian, and a picture of a lavishly decorated dining table, covered in different food, from fruit to cakes, and roasted potatoes to glasses of champagne.
“Isn't this an absolutely stunning book?”
“It's got nice pictures,” I reply.
Yeah, that'll make her fall in love with me. Nice pictures.
She leafs through the book, revealing page after page of beautiful photos of different foods. “It's all famous Malveauxian foods. They do make jolly good desserts, but,” she looks around the shop before she leans in toward me, and instantly my heart begins to beat like a drum.
“But what?” I ask, wondering what it would be like to kiss those soft lips of hers, to pull her against me and tell her how I feel about her, to breathe in her intoxicating scent.
“Word to the wise, Mav: don’t ever drink Malveauxian tea. Or their champagne, for that matter,” she says under her breath. “Dreadful stuff.”
I swallow. “Got it. But I'm not sure I’ll have a lot of call to drink their champagne.”
“Well, if you do, add some orange cordial to it. That’s what my brother always does. He’s awfully clever like that.”
“Why would you add orange cordial to a glass of champagne?”
“To make it taste better, silly,” she replies with a laugh, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
“Speaking of family, my kid sister runs a bookstore a little like this in my hometown. She’s a total bookworm.”
“I adore her already. What's she like?”
Warmth spreads through me as I think of Emmy. “Emmy’s the best. She's funny and smart and totally bookish. Which I guess goes with the territory when you run a bookstore.”
“I imagine it helps rather a lot.”
“What sort of books do you like to read?”
“You're going to laugh at me.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone knows chaps don't read the sort of books I like.”
“Chaps?” I can’t help but question, unable to stop a smile from spreading. It's adorable the way she's referring to men as “chaps.”
But then I find I like everything there is to like about Amy.
“You know. You. Men.”
“Right. Let me guess. You like to read romance.”
“How did you know?”
“Sister, remember? She’s kinda got a thing for romance books.”
“See? I told you I adore Emmy already. Come with me.” She leads me over to what must be the romance section, if all the illustrated covers in bright colors and men who seemed to have forgotten to put on a shirt are to go by.
I pick one up. It's got a guy dressed as a Viking, has long hair falling over his shoulders, his six-pack glistening. “Is this your vibe?”
“Oh, I'm more into romances than all that Viking stuff. I like to read about everyday people falling in love.”
Why did I let her bring me to this section? It's like the universe wants me to double down on my feelings for her, right here with the matchmaking proprietor.
“It’s not just romance novels. I love Hallmark Christmas movies, too. In fact, I hold an annual Christmas movie marathon every December, snuggled up in front of the fire. I used to do it with Alex—even though he pretended to hate them—but now that he’s married he’s not around as much, so I watch them with one of the dogs.”
“Doesn’t his new wife let him watch movies with you?”
“Maddie? Oh, she’s lovely. She’d never tell Alex what to do. But they live here, in Malveaux. I miss him horribly.”
“I tell you what, come winter, I’ll do your Christmas movie marathon with you.”
She lifts her gaze to mine and I swear there's something in her eyes that tells me maybe, just maybe, she feels an inkling of what I feel for her. But then it's gone, and my heart deflates like a hot air balloon come back to earth.
There's a weird tinkling sound that's getting closer, and I pull my gaze from Amy to see Mr. Bellamy holding a tray with a pot and cups and saucers. “I've made you tea,” he announces proudly.
“That's so jolly sweet of you. Thank you, Mr. Bellamy,” Amy says.
“I'll put it down in the reading nook for you, shall I?” He gestures at a cozy spot with a small velvet sofa.
“You're so kind,” Amy says.
He places the tray down on a side table. “Sit. Drink. Stay a while. A bookshop is where wonderful things happen between the pages.”
Amy beams at him. “You're absolutely right, Mr. Bellamy.”
He hobbles away but not before he throws me a wink.
Now he's winking at me?
I blow out a breath.
“Would you care for some tea?” Amy asks.
“I thought you said Malveauxian tea was horrible.”
“It is. But we don't want to be rude to Mr. Bellamy, do we?”
“Of course not. He seems like a nice man.” A nice matchmaking man.
“I'll tell you what. You pour us some tea and I’ll find some classic fairy tales, Malveaux style. We can read them together.”
“Sounds … fun?”
She giggles again, the sound tinkling and sweet. “It will be fun. Just you wait and see.”
As Amy leaves to find the fairytale section—and in this store I bet you it's half the shop—I pour tea into two floral cups, feeling like a kid at a play tea party.
Yeah, you can blame Emmy for that, too.
Really, my sister has a lot to be accountable for.
I take a seat on the velvet sofa. I've always loved bookstores, particularly the small, independent stores that are so full of personality. I've taken to visiting them in LA. I guess they remind me of home and my sister’s beloved bookstore, Falling for Books. But more than that they offer me an element of escape. I can get lost in a book for hours, forget about who I am and what my world has become. I can forget that I'm this hot new star that everybody wants a piece of, that everybody thinks they know me because they’ve read articles about me from allegedly “reliable sources.”
Man, I do not miss that life one bit. In Hollywood, everything's calculated for maximum exposure, every smile some form of transaction.
Not like Amy. She’s real. Authentic. There isn’t one bit of artifice in her.
She returns with a stack of books and plunks herself down next to me on the sofa.
“Add lots of sugar to the tea,” she says under her breath. “That way it’s almost bearable.”
“You’re really selling it.”
She adds several spoons of sugar to both our cups and stirs.
Handing me a cup, I say, “Thanks, Mom.”
“Now drink up,” she tells me, leaning into the role.
I take a sip, expecting the worst. It’s sweet and nice enough. “I like it,” I tell her.
She raises her brows at me. “You’re a weirdo. Either that or secretly Malveauxian.”
“You got me. I'm not American at all.”
She laughs and a wonderful sense of warmth spreads across my chest.
This. This is what I'm missing in my life. This kind of closeness with someone genuine, someone I know enjoys being with me as much as I enjoy being with them.
The irony that Amy doesn't even know my real name is not lost on me.
Maybe I should tell her? Maybe it's time to come clean about who I really am?
How will she react? Even though we've grown close during our time together, how will she react to learning that I've been lying to her all along?
I watch as she takes a sip of her tea and makes a face. I shake my head, smiling. “You don't have to drink it if you don't want to.”
“I don't want to upset Mr. Bellamy,” she replies under her breath. “He's such a nice man and he's been so welcoming to us.”
“Here.” I check that Mr. Bellamy isn't watching and, seeing that he's engaged with another customer, I pour the contents of Amy's cup into mine.
“Mav! What are you doing?”
“I told you I like it. Now, read me your fairytale.”
“This one is one of my childhood favorites,” she says, holding up a book with a woman bundled up in red velvet, surrounded by snow. “It’s called The Winter Queen’s Tiara and it’s very popular in Ledonia. Shall I translate it for you?”
“Sure.”
She settles into her seat, our thighs so close they’re almost touching. As she reads aloud about how a royal family's precious tiara was created when a queen saved her people during a terrible winter by venturing into frozen mountains alone, her soft voice washes over me, and I find my gaze resting on her full lips.
It would be so easy to lean in to her and place a soft kiss on those lips.
My pulse leaps at the thought.
She stops reading and I flick my gaze to her eyes. “Tell me if you're not enjoying this,” she says.
“Oh, I am. You're telling it so well.”
She gives me an odd look, as though she's not sure whether I'm teasing her.
“Seriously,” I reassure her. “I'm enjoying you telling me the story, and the fact that you loved it when you were a kid makes it all the more special.”
Her face flushes with pleasure. “When I was young I imagined one day I would be that queen, going into the frozen mountains to save my people.”
“Like the movie Frozen .”
“Other than the two stories being set in winter, I'm not sure there are any other similarities.”
My show is set in winter, too, but it’s a hundred times more cynical than this fairytale—a lot like the difference between my life here with Amy and back in LA.
She returns her attention to the book, and once again my gaze slides to her mouth, watching as her lips form the words, imagining … dreaming …
This is getting ridiculous. I'm like a spotty-faced teenager with a crush on an unobtainable girl, too scared to tell her how I feel, knowing chances she feels anything for me are about as likely as Amy becoming that queen, saving her people in the frozen mountains.
“And as Queen Eleanora returned, the enchanted crystals were woven into her silver-white hair glowing with inner light that melted the snow beneath her feet. From that day forward, whenever a daughter of Ledonia wore the Winter Tiara fashioned from those never-melting crystals, the kingdom would be blessed with warmth even in the coldest seasons—not the warmth of summer sun, but the more powerful warmth that comes only from a ruler who would sacrifice everything for her people.” Amy closes the book over with a wistful look in her eyes. “What do you think?”
I think I’m falling for you.
Of course I don’t say it. I shouldn’t even be thinking it, not when I’m only here for a month. Not when she’s given me no sign she feels anything beyond friendship for me.
So, instead I reply, “It’s a nice story. I can see why Kid Amy loved it so much.”
Her features drop.
“What is it?” I ask, concerned I’ve said something wrong.
“It’s raining! We’re going to get soaked on our way to the café.”
The moment the words leave her mouth, there’s a flash of lightning, illuminating the store around us with its harsh, white light, followed a moment later by a crash of thunder.
“Woah! That was big,” I say.
“We might have to stay here until the storm has blown over. I didn’t bring a coat.”
I grin at her. “I'm good with that. This sofa is mighty comfy. You know, we get storms like this back home in Washington state. I shared a room with my brother?—”
“Dan.”
“Dan,” I confirm. “He would be all stoic about the storms, pretending they didn't bother him. Not me. If I got woken up in the night I would climb into bed with my parents, where I’d usually find my sister and our two cats.”
“That's a lot of creatures to have in one bed. Did Dan tough it out on his own?”
“Yup. I think he had a point to prove, being the oldest and all. You know what older brothers are like. They’ve got to seem like they're totally in control of everything, when I bet they’re just as scared as the rest of us.”
“That sounds more like Sofia. She's softened now that she's married to someone who's her complete opposite, but she still has that whole bravery thing going on. I couldn't give two hoots about whether I appear brave or not.”
“That's because you're who you are unapologetically.”
She tilts her head and looks intently at me. “Do you really think that?”
“Totally. It's one of the things I like most about you, in fact. The people I meet? Most of them are more concerned with how they look than who they are as human beings. They like to shout about their achievements. Look at me! I’m freaking amazing! ” I shake my head, thinking of Chelsea and Dion and the people who surround me in LA. “You’re not like that. You’re real. You are who you are and you don’t apologize for it.”
She opens her mouth as though to reply, and then clamps her lips shut. It’s as though she’s on the precipice of saying something, but then thinks better of it.
“What?” I ask, but she shakes her head.
“Do you know what I like most about you, Mav?”
I scrunch my nose as I try not to get my hopes up. “My dashing good looks and charm?” I joke, making light.
She giggles. “Well, obviously. I am but a woman. What I like most about you is that you have a complete lack of pretense. You say that I'm who I am unapologetically, but that's precisely how I would choose to describe you .”
There's a moment in which we both stare intently into one another's eyes and my heart thuds against my ribs. Should I tell her? Should I come clean? Should I let her know who I really am? Tell her I've been hiding my identity from her all this time?
I make the call. I’m doing it. I'm telling her.
I don't care about the consequences. I trust her and I want her to know the real me. No more hiding. No more pretending.
I take a breath. “Amy, I need to tell you something.”
“If it’s about you going on a date with Giovanna, I already know.”
I blink at her. “You do?”
“I eavesdropped on your conversation the other day. I’m sorry. I know it was wrong of me, but I saw her come in and, well, I don’t know why I wanted to hear. Can you forgive me?” Her features crease up.
The fact she felt the need to eavesdrop makes my stupid heart well with hope. But then it deflates again as I think of how I agreed to go to dinner with Giovanna. How can I tell her that I’m only going out with her because she knows who I am? That I’m going to use the date to ask her to keep my secret, knowing I’ll probably have to trade it for something she wants from me.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I say.
Her features relax. “Thank you. And I truly am sorry. Your love life is your business.”
If only she knew.
“About that,” I begin, needing to tell her I have no romantic interest in Giovanna whatsoever, only to be interrupted by Mr. Bellamy.
“Would you mind helping me, young man? A section of the roof always leaks when it rains. That's quite a storm out there.”
“That's terrible,” Amy exclaims. “What can we do for you?”
“I have some buckets in the storeroom.”
“Just show us where,” Amy says with her beautiful smile. “Mav?”
“Of course. We'll go get the buckets.”
As we busy ourselves positioning buckets under leaks and mopping up what we've missed, I can't help feeling I've missed the chance to share my secret with Amy.
There's a certain irony in the fact that I've spent my career pretending to feel things I don't, saying lines written by someone else. But being with Amy, sharing the simple things in life, is the most authentic I've felt in years.
I'm supposed to be finding myself, not losing my heart to the mysterious woman I met in a costume store. Yet here I am, falling for someone for the first time in years. And she only sees me as a friend.