Chapter 9
Hidden Treasures
Gavin
The bookstore was tucked on a corner in Beacon Hill—Beacon Hill Books & Cafe. Narrow brick facade, warm lighting visible through the windows, shelves packed floor to ceiling. The kind of place you walk past and double back because it looks so interesting.
I was ten minutes early and made my way in to look around.
Charisse was still with Rebecca until tomorrow morning, so I'd used the morning to get a few things done, killing time until my second date in as many days with Andi.
I was excited she'd agreed to meet me at the bookstore.
It was a different kind of date, but it felt like the right one for us.
My phone buzzed.
Andi: Running 5 min late. Be there soon.
I smiled.
Gavin: I'm here. Browsing.
I lost myself in the shelves, running my fingers along spines and pulling out titles that caught my eye. Deep in the true crime section, I felt a pair of hands suddenly cover my eyes from behind. "Guess who," came a soft voice near my ear.
My heart kicked against my ribs. I could smell her perfume—something light and floral that I'd started associating with her.
"Jessica Rabbit?" I said.
Her laugh was warm against my neck. "Not exactly."
"My sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Parker?"
"Definitely colder."
"Wonder Woman?"
She dropped her hands, and I turned around. She was still bundled in her coat and scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, grinning up at me.
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "My cover's blown, huh?"
"Nah. I knew from the start that you were Wonder Woman."
Her cheeks bloomed pink as she whispered, "Sweet," the word hanging between us like a promise.
We stood there for a second, just smiling at each other like idiots.
I wanted to kiss her, but we were in the middle of a bookstore with people browsing nearby.
Instead, I leaned in quickly, my lips grazing her cheek before I pulled back, feeling my face warm with a smile I couldn't control.
I felt like I was in freaking middle school. Get it together, dumbass.
"True crime?" she asked, glancing at the shelf behind me.
"Was just looking."
"Liar. You were totally picking something out." She moved closer, scanning the titles. "Ooh, that one's good. Read it last year. Couldn't put it down."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But also couldn't sleep for a week, so maybe skip it."
I laughed and put the book back. "Noted."
She unwrapped her scarf, stuffing it into her coat pocket. She gestured toward the shelves. "Ready to pick out something that'll blow my mind with your superior literary taste?" Her eyes were lit up with challenge. "I've been thinking all day. You won't know what hit you."
"Oh, I'm ready. Question is, are you?"
"Oh, I'm definitely ready."
"Big talk."
"I can back it up."
She disappeared into the fiction section while I headed back to nonfiction. I scanned the shelves, looking for something that would work. I found it on a bottom shelf—Coffee: A Dark History by Antony Wild. Perfect.
When I found her again, she was holding her hands behind her back. "Okay, hear me out."
"Uh-oh."
"No, no. Not uh-oh. It's nothing crazy. I just want to preface this with a caveat that I know this may take a long time to read. I get that it's a big one and probably a lot to lay on you."
I raised my eyebrows, feeling a flutter of apprehension in my chest. What exactly was she about to hand me? War and Peace? Some massive tome I'd never finish but would have to pretend to read?
"This," she said, holding out a royal blue paperback book, "is my pick.
" I looked at it closely and saw the title—Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.
"One of my favorite books, and well worth the time it takes to read it.
It's a love story that crosses time, but it's filled with action and history. It's an incredible book and series."
I took it from her, feeling its substantial heft in my palm.
The worn edges told me this wasn't some random grab from the shelf—she'd deliberately chosen something that mattered to her.
My chest tightened with a mix of anticipation and self-doubt as I glanced down at my own selection tucked under my arm.
Next to her thoughtful choice, would mine seem shallow? Trivial?
"Your turn," she said, eyeing the book I was holding. "What'd you pick?"
I handed her Coffee: A Dark History. She took it, studying the cover, then looked up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You're such a nerd," she finally said, but her voice was soft.
"Says the woman who just handed me a time-traveling romance novel."
"It's not just romance. There're battles and politics and—" she stopped, laughing. "Okay, fine. It's also a romance. But good romance."
"I'll take your word for it."
"You'd better actually read it."
"I will. Promise." I looked down at Outlander again.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get coffee."
We ordered at the counter—an Americano for me, something complicated with extra foam and cinnamon for her—and found two armchairs near the fireplace. The bookstore was quiet, with just a few other people scattered around, lost in their own worlds.
She kicked off her shoes and curled up in her chair, tucking her legs under her. Opened the coffee book and started reading, occasionally making small sounds—surprised, amused, interested.
"Listen to this," she said, looking up. She read a passage aloud, her voice animated, then laughed. "I'm basically in the rebellion business."
"Dangerous work."
"Someone's gotta do it."
I looked down at my open book and tried to focus on the first page. But I kept getting distracted by her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she read. How she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating. The small smile that appeared when she found something interesting.
"You're not reading," she said without looking up.
"How do you know?"
"I can feel you staring."
"Maybe I'm a fast reader."
"You're on page two. You've been on page two for ten minutes." She looked at me over the top of the book. "Distracted?"
I felt heat crawl up my neck. "Maybe I am."
Her smile widened. "Good."
We talked between reading—about her trip to Ireland after college where she'd lived on bread and cheese for two weeks, about the summer I'd spent in Barcelona falling in love with Gaudí's architecture.
She told me about her grandmother teaching her to make the perfect cup of coffee, how she could tell the quality of beans just by smell.
I told her about Charisse's current obsession with building elaborate blanket forts that took over the entire living room.
"That's adorable," she said. "How old is she again?"
"Ten."
"And she still builds forts?"
“Most weekends when she’s home. Gets mad when I try to take them down.
" I smiled, thinking about the last fort that had somehow incorporated the dining room chairs, three blankets, and every pillow in the damn house.
It even had rooms like she'd seen on an episode of Bluey.
"She's got an engineering mind. Probably gets it from me. "
"You should bring her to The Grind one day soon," Andi said. "We make really good hot chocolate. Kids love it."
The words were casual, but something in her tone made my chest tighten.
"Yeah," I said. "Maybe sometime."
The way her smile flickered—just for a second—told me she'd heard the hesitation in my voice. But she didn't push. Just changed the subject, asking about the Barcelona project, and we moved on.
Time slipped away. At some point, someone turned on the small lights strung along the bookshelves. The fire crackled. Outside, the light faded to dusk.
"We should probably go," I said, checking my phone. "They're closing soon."
"Already?" She looked genuinely disappointed. "That went fast."
"It did."
We gathered our things. I paid for both books at the counter despite her protests.
Outside, the temperature had dropped. Our breath came out in clouds. She wrapped her scarf tighter and slipped her hand into mine.
"Want to walk a bit?" I asked.
"Sure."
We wandered through Beacon Hill—narrow streets lined with brick townhouses, gas lamps glowing warmly against the darkening sky. Her hand fit perfectly in mine, and I found myself pulling her closer against the cold.
"Today was really nice," she said.
"It was."
"Better than I expected, honestly. I thought a bookstore date might be too quiet. But it was perfect."
"Yeah. It was."
We looped back toward where we'd parked. When we reached my car, I turned to face her. She looked up at me, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright.
I kissed her. Right there on the sidewalk, not caring who might see. She kissed me back, her hands coming up to my jacket, and for a moment everything else disappeared.
"Okay," she said when we broke apart, breathless. "Now I really have to go before I freeze to death."
I laughed. "Get home safe."
"You too."
I watched her walk away, watched her wave before getting in. Stood there, probably longer than necessary, before finally getting in mine.
On the drive home, I kept glancing at the book on my passenger seat. Outlander. An exchange. A promise from each of us to read our picks for one another. And consequently, to think about each other while reading.
It felt significant in a way I wasn't quite ready to examine.
The next several weeks fell into a rhythm that felt both effortless and carefully orchestrated.
Our time together fell into comfortable patterns.
We'd alternate between Pad See Ew at Pepper Sky's in Somerville and the tiny North End place where Andi swore the lasagne was worth the forty-minute wait.
Last Saturday, she dozed off against me within twenty minutes into a movie, her breath warm against my neck while I sat statue-still until the credits rolled.