Chapter Fifteen #2
She held it up so he could see the cover of the book from a literary darling chosen by all the major book clubs that he’d tried several times to read. He couldn’t get through it, but he kept thinking it was his mood and putting it back on the shelf instead of adding it to the donation box.
“I picked the most well-read-looking book I could find on the shelf, assuming the cover would be tattered because you love it so much you keep rereading it.”
Danny hadn’t realized until this moment that there was a strange intimacy in a woman wanting to read his favorite book. “And?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I think it’s tattered because you bought it used, either at a used book sale or a yard sale. I don’t think you like this book.”
Even though his heart ached because it seemed impossible Kenzie could know him so well—really get him—and still not be the right woman for him, he managed a grin. “I keep trying because the rest of the world thinks it’s a masterpiece, but I really don’t like it.”
She laughed as she closed the book and tossed it onto the table. “Good. Maybe it’s time to rehome that book and save the shelf space for something better.”
“Definitely. Did you take a peek in my office?”
“Of course not.” She looked a little offended by the question. “It’s actually kind of rude to go snooping around other people’s houses. Make yourself at home usually means you should feel free to pour yourself a drink or peek in the fridge for a snack.”
“That explains why the Wilsons never invited me back,” he joked, just to make her laugh again. “Do you want to see it?”
“Of course I do. I seem to recall being lured here with the promise of seeing your whiteboard.”
He led the way upstairs and down the hall before stepping back to wave her into his second favorite space in the house. “This is when I confess I actually have more than one whiteboard.”
“Of course you do.”
As she stepped into the room, he reached in and hit the switch so soft natural light flooded the room.
The one drawback to the house was that the pitch of the roof didn’t allow for big windows up here like he’d put in downstairs.
There had been a lot of trial and error with the lighting for his office until he’d found ones that gave him enough light to work without feeling as though he was in a commercial office space.
There was also a ceiling fan that was always on low, whether it was summer or winter.
He watched Kenzie slowly turn, taking it in, and he tried to see it through her eyes.
Was it disappointing? Had she expected massive mahogany furniture and a leather executive chair?
Bookcases with leather-bound editions and copies of his own books displayed artfully on a glass table?
He’d seen the obligatory office photos in profiles of authors, so he wouldn’t blame her for expecting a little more than a small Shaker table with a mesh office chair that didn’t look like much, but was the most comfortable and supportive of the approximately three hundred he’d sat in while chair shopping.
There was a treadmill in the other corner, with a whiteboard hung over it. That one he didn’t write on, but instead covered with sticky notes he added, moved around, removed and mostly stared at while he walked. There were sticky notes and markers in the treadmill’s cup holder.
The big whiteboard was on a stand with wheels, and he couldn’t even calculate how many hours he’d spent standing in front of it, staring at the barely legible scrawls that accumulated over the course of writing.
Under the eave was a low, wide bookcase that held copies of his books, plus practically every notebook he’d ever written in. And on the walls were a framed copy of the first bestseller list he hit and framed covers of his books.
“I like this,” she said after she’d looked around. “I can picture you working in here.”
“Really?” For some reason, that pleased him. “I wasn’t sure if you were expecting something more… I don’t know. Leather. Chrome and glass, maybe?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You mean something stuffy? That’s not you. Plus, wouldn’t there be a lot of pressure if you had some ‘stuffy literary author’ office?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “A lot of pressure.”
When she wandered over to the big whiteboard, he tried not to tense up.
The next book was in the earliest stages, when it wasn’t even a story yet, but just a collection of random notes scrawled on the board.
They wouldn’t make any sense to her without context, and as much as he enjoyed brainstorming with her, that’s not why she was here.
“So did you think of anything you want to do this afternoon? Go to the mall? Bowling. Get a tattoo?”
She laughed, and then cocked her head. “How far are we from the big bookstore in Manchester?”
“It’s about a half hour or so from here. Do you want to go there?”
A blush spread across her cheeks as she shrugged. “No, that would be silly. I mean, your whole life centers around books, and you probably go there all the time.”
“I do go there a lot, because I love bookstores. When’s the last time you were there?”
“It’s been a few years, at least. Rhylee’s not a huge reader, but I’m able to drag her into the library once in a while. But to drive all the way down here and back in an afternoon to browse a bookstore isn’t on her top ten list of favorite things to do.”
“We should go. You can help me pick something out for that empty spot on my shelf.”
She hesitated, but he could see the eagerness in her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Are you kidding? It’s my number one favorite thing to do. I was just letting you choose to be nice.”