8. Landon #3
“Anything you think belongs with me.”
“That is a dangerous amount of authority.”
“I trust your judgment.”
“You questioned my judgment this morning.”
“Your taste in men fixed the dataset.”
She shook her head. “Then you have to pick one for me.”
“Already planned to.”
“You don’t know what I’m choosing.”
“I know what you read.”
“You know some of what I read.”
“Enough to be dangerous.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No business books.”
“I’m your man, not professional development.”
“And no selecting something because you think I need to learn a lesson.”
“Fair.”
“You agree awfully easily.”
“I’m trying to preserve diplomatic relations.”
“Good.”
“You also can’t give me anything about emotionally unavailable men.”
“That eliminates half the male literary canon.”
I laughed. “See? Profiling already.”
She disappeared deeper into fiction.
I let her.
Mostly.
Our paths crossed between shelves every few minutes anyway. A hand at her back when I moved past. Her fingers catching mine as she rounded a table. A wink over the top of a display.
Small shit.
Good shit.
I found her book on a table devoted to Black women’s fiction. I recognized the author from the stack she’d lingered over during our first bookstore date. The novel followed a woman whose carefully arranged life widened when she finally let joy arrive without demanding credentials.
I almost put it back because the thematic overlap was a little disrespectful.
Then I read the first page.
The writing sounded like her.
That decided it.
I carried the book to the register while Nolani browsed near the back. Miss Roslyn looked at the cover, then at me, then past me toward Nolani.
“So that’s why you walked in smiling like the Lord gave you advance notice on a blessing.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“It’s almost afternoon.”
“Then you had hours to decide to mind your business.”
She laughed and pulled a cream bookmark edged in gold from beneath the counter.
“This for her?”
“Yeah.”
“You serious?”
I looked toward Nolani.
She was standing beneath a photograph of Toni Morrison, reading the back of a paperback with enough concentration to forget I existed.
“Yeah.”
Miss Roslyn slid a pen toward me.
“Don’t give that woman a book without leaving something of yourself inside it.”
I looked at the bookmark.
The words came easy.
Every beautiful story deserves another chapter.
I signed one letter beneath it.
L.
Nolani would know.
I tucked the bookmark deep enough that she wouldn’t find it today, paid, and had Miss Roslyn hide the bag beneath the counter.
“You know I still got your encyclopedia picture.”
“You know extortion carries consequences.”
“History ain’t extortion.”
“I was a private citizen.”
“You were nine.”
“Exactly. Vulnerable population.”
Miss Roslyn waved me away.
Nolani found me near poetry carrying a novel against her chest.
“I chose.”
“You look proud.”
“I am.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Deeply.”
She handed it to me.
The description followed a former athlete who had spent years mistaking usefulness for love, convinced his value existed mostly in what he could carry for everybody else.
I looked at her.
She looked innocent.
Poorly.
“You profiling me through fiction?”
“I’m selecting literature based on available evidence.”
“This man sounds tired.”
“He also sounds handsome.”
“That ain’t in the description.”
“I read between the lines.”
I turned the book over again. “You picked this because he learns to receive.”
“I picked it because he learns being loved doesn’t diminish what he’s capable of carrying.” That shut me up for a second. Nolani touched the center of my chest. “And because strength shouldn’t always have to prove itself through weight.”
I covered her hand with mine. “You trying to make me emotional beside poetry?”
“Would that damage your reputation?”
“Significantly.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“How?”
She kissed my cheek. “I’ll tell everybody the vocabulary overwhelmed you.”
I pulled her closer by the waist.
“Smart mouth.”
“You requested the full package.”
“I did.”
Best decision I’d made in a minute.
“You ready to see yours?”
“You already picked?”
“Yeah.”
“That was fast.”
“I knew what I was looking for.”
“In the book or in me?”
“Yes.”
Her expression said the answer should’ve annoyed her.
It didn’t.
At the register, Nolani reached into her purse.
I touched her wrist.
“Already handled.”
“I’m buying yours.”
“Nah.”
“I selected it for you.”
“And I accepted the gift.”
“You purchasing your own gift is not how gifts work.”
“I bought the books. You gave me mine.”
“That philosophy is extremely convenient.”
“Still accurate.” She looked ready to argue. I kissed her forehead. “Let me have this one.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she put her wallet away.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Look at us.
Growth everywhere.
Miss Roslyn slid both bags across the counter. “Come back when you finish them. Couples’ reading night is every third Thursday.”
Nolani looked at me.
“Couples’ reading night?”
“We’re a couple.”
“You sounded very proud of that.”
“I’m proud thinking it.”
My arm settled around her waist as we headed toward the door. I caught our reflection in the glass. Nolani tucked against my side in my hoodie, both bookstore bags in my free hand and her fingers threaded through mine.
She caught me looking.
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m aware.”
“At yourself?”
“Nah, love.” I looked at our reflection once more. “I like how my future stands beside me.”
For once, Nolani had nothing smart to offer.
She just squeezed my hand and walked outside with me.
The beach had been washed clean by the storm.
Rain still clung to the sea oats, and the damp sand stayed cool beneath our feet as we followed the path toward the water. A couple walked near the pier. Three kids collected shells farther down shore. Everybody else had apparently decided to give us the beach.
I supported that decision.
Nolani slipped off her sandals and curled her toes into the sand, lifting her face toward the breeze.
I had two bookstore bags in one hand, a picnic tote over my shoulder, and no remaining interest in pretending I wasn’t gone behind that woman.
She looked back.
“You’re staring again.”
“Part of my daily routine now.”
“You should find a hobby.”
“I coach, read, mentor young men, maintain meaningful community relationships, and mind my business when appropriate. Staring at my woman is enrichment.”
“That sounds like something you invented to avoid admitting you’re obsessed.”
“Obsessed lacks nuance.”
“What would you call it?”
I took her hand and pulled her closer.
“Focused.”
She laughed. “That’s all?”
“Trying to cut down on excessive vocabulary.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Landon?”
“I’m evolving.”
“Terrifying.”
We found a spot near the shoreline. I spread the blanket while Nolani wrestled with the sleeves of my hoodie. She had pushed them above her wrists twice, and they kept falling.
I reached for her.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing my hoodie.”
“Your hoodie?”
“It’s on you. Ownership currently disputed.” I rolled the sleeves for her and kissed one hand when I finished. “Better.”
“You could’ve told me to roll them.”
“Missed an opportunity to touch you.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Always.”
Nolani sat while I unpacked lunch. Turkey croissant sandwiches, berries, pasta salad, sparkling water, and the remaining cheesecake.
Her brows rose.
“This is simple?”
“No seafood tower. Significant restraint.”
“You packed cheesecake for the beach.”
“Benefits rolled over.”
“The agreement expired.”
“Who told you that?”
“You planned this?”
“I planned to spend today with you. Location depended on weather.”
Something in her expression softened.
I handed her a sandwich.
She opened it. “No tomatoes.”
“You don’t like them on deli sandwiches.”
“I told you that?”
“You removed them in Willow Run.”
“That was over a week ago.”
“Yeah.”
She looked at me.
I shrugged.
“Hershey, I remember shit.”
Her smile grew.
“Apparently.”
We ate with our shoulders touching while the tide worked its way up the shore. Nolani accused me of giving her the larger piece of cheesecake.
I had.
She deserved it.
I saw no reason to confess.
When I held a bite toward her, she leaned in and took it from my fork. Her eyes remained on mine.
“Worth transporting dessert across dangerous terrain?”
She looked at the twenty yards of damp sand between us and the parking lot.
“Marginally.”
Then she touched beneath my chin and kissed me.
I let her.
The kiss tasted like chocolate and moved at her pace, warm instead of urgent. Her hand rested along my jaw while mine settled at her waist beneath the hoodie.
When she pulled back, I looked at her.
“Marginally?”
“Findings updated.”
“Favorable?”
“Under review.”
“Need more data?”
“Possibly.”
I kissed her again.
“Community enrichment,” she murmured against my mouth.
“You stealing my material.”
“You survive.”
“Barely.”
We cleaned up together without another argument about whether she was allowed to help me. Nolani stacked containers. I packed them. Simple. Adult. Nobody required a counseling intervention.
Once the food was put away, she stretched her legs across my lap.
I caught one bare foot in my hand.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What are you doing?”
“Foot rub.”
“That simple?”
“I’m reforming.”
She laughed.
My thumb worked through the center of her foot, and suspicion gradually surrendered to pleasure.
“You don’t need an academic justification?”
“I don’t need a degree to touch my woman. The vocabulary is recreational.”
That got her.
“You’ve been waiting to say that.”
“Nah. Your feet presented an opportunity.”
“Of course.”
I took my time with both feet while she watched the water. Every now and then, she looked at me, caught me watching her, and shook her head like the behavior had become a condition she intended to manage.
Eventually, she shifted closer and tucked herself beneath my arm.
The bookstore bag sat beside us.
Nolani glanced toward it. “Are you giving me my book now?”
“I already gave you the book.”
“You refused to let me open the bag.”
“I preserved the reveal.”
“You enjoy unnecessary suspense.”
“I enjoy your face when you happy.”
She reached.
I moved the bag.
“Landon.”