Chapter 40
I don’t go to the game. I don’t care a hoot about the SDSU Aztecs.
I walk dogs. I walk up to the corner store and buy artisan ginger ale, which I drink outside with my fire pit lit and a stack of books to keep me company.
The sun sets. The light fades. The ginger ale disappears.
The glow of my fire and my books are all the company I’ll ever have.
I know it’s late, but I can’t bring myself to go inside. Inside is a nightstand stuffed with Mike’s grandma’s books. Out here, with the fire, I can almost remember what it felt like when I thought they were his.
The gate separating our halves of the property swings open, and the man himself stands there in the shadows. “Bea. You’re up. Sorry to disturb you. I saw the firelight, and it’s late.”
“You worried I fell asleep and was going to burn the place down?”
“Yes. No. I didn’t want you to be sleeping alone. I mean, with a fire.”
I snort. “Smooth, Mike.”
He slides my pile of books over and sits next to me on my outdoor sofa. “How was the game?”
“Oh, it was great. Yeah. We did the wave. Almost made it onto the jumbotron.”
“Who did you end up going with?”
“Stephen. Yeah. Friend from work. My old work. Firm. Law firm. Great guy.”
“Who won?”
“We did. Yeah. Go Aztecs.”
“I only caught the fourth quarter, but from what I saw, it was a great game.”
“Right?”
“For the Air Force.” Mike picks up one of the many empty bottles of ginger ale scattered around me and examines it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world before putting it back with the rest. “They were up by eleven. Which you would have known if you’d been there.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. I didn’t go. I gave the tickets to Adam and Sarah and spent my Friday night reading.”
He leans forward. “Why didn’t you go to the game?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because I only wanted to go with you. Okay?”
He slides closer and shifts my legs until they are stretched across his lap. His hands, warm and calloused, wrap around me, cradle my neck and back. He moves slowly as he brushes his lips across my jaw.
“No.”
He freezes and then retreats. “No,” he repeats, but not without sounding completely dumbfounded and miserable.
“You’re not you.” I whine. I plead.
His brow furrows. “I am very much me.”
“But you’re not your grandmother.”
His chest is rising and falling, and still he wears confusion—adorable confusion—all across his handsome face. “Which most would appreciate in this situation.”
I moan. “But I love her!”
“Okay. That’s something we have in common. I love her too.”
“Not her. Her books.” I can’t keep it in any longer.
“The day I came to look at the cottage, all her books were still there. I started reading all her notes. All her insights. All her words. Every clever, sexy thing she wrote in those margins. All my favorite parts were her favorite parts. But I thought they were yours.” I pull my legs in and tuck them up close.
“Not that I knew this place was yours. Adam didn’t tell me you were my future landlord. ”
Mike is blinking fast. “And when you found out?”
“I’d been nursing a pretty bad crush on you since we met.
When I thought the books were yours, it felt like love.
” I try to laugh, but I can’t muster the energy.
“I thought we might be soulmates. The connection I felt was all-consuming because you weren’t just hot, you had a sexy mind.
You were deep and introspective. No wonder you were so good onstage.
No wonder you were cocky and conceited. But then I learned that the books weren’t yours.
And you weren’t my soulmate and—” I start laughing.
“‘I am sham’d by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth.’”
“You little thief. Where is it?” he asks, rising. “Grandma’s collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
I sigh. It doesn’t matter now. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”
He turns off my gas fire. “Show me.”
We step through the French doors of my cottage.
I flick on my lamp and grab the volume of poetry from the nightstand.
“I borrowed it before I knew it was your grandma’s.
I didn’t give it back when you asked because I was deep into some conflicting feelings for you.
When you said a couple of weeks ago that these were her books, I was too embarrassed.
Sad too. I mean, she was the most beautiful, sensitive, sensual soul that ever lived. But so not my type.”
Mike grabs the pen from my legal pad on the coffee table and opens the book. He flips through it and pauses. “You wrote in this?”
I hide my face in my hands. “Maybe…”
He uncaps my pen. “Did you write in others?”
“If by ‘others,’ you mean Northanger Abbey, definitely.”
“I hate that book,” Mike says as he writes something in the margin of a sonnet.
“Yeah, well, your grandma didn’t get it either.”
“Read it.” He passes the book back to me. “Out loud.”
In a familiar, tight, slanted scrawl in a space next to Sonnet 72, I read, The only reason I’d ever go to a football game would be to sit next to you.
I look up at him. “I don’t understand. You and your grandma have nearly identical handwriting.”
“They’re her books. She sent me the collection my senior year of high school after she moved into assisted living.
She said she worried what the salt air might do to them if they weren’t properly looked after.
I was so excited to find her in the pages, but they were blank.
All of them. Except for the one short story of Edgar Allan Poe that she marked up with me in sixth grade. ”
My mind is stuttering and stopping, and my stomach is free-falling. “These are her books, but the notes are yours. Your commentary. Your blue ink and underline. It’s you on the page.”
“Yes.”
I laugh once—just once—before throwing myself into Mike’s arms. My lips press against his, and the kiss feels both exuberant and shy.
His hands are in my hair, then pressed against my back, urging me closer, holding me tighter. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he says, not smoothly, but haltingly. I suppose it’s difficult to speak when someone else has your lips between her teeth. “Bea.”
“Mike.”
He has both of my arms caught in his hands and is pushing me gently away from him. His eyes are so gorgeous I could fall into them and come out as sticky and sweet as honey. “Talk to me,” he demands. “Before I do something stupid.”
“Stupid like what?” There’s passion in my kisses, but relief and frustration too.
“Like recite poetry, or ask you to marry me, or tell you I haven’t thought of anyone but you since we met.”
“I like this.” I shift back slightly, just long enough to say, “Keep going.”
He kisses my neck. “You are too smart for your own good. Your clever eyes.” He kisses each of them. “Your wicked tongue. The smug smiles that grace your lips.” He trails a finger against them. “I’ve written sonnets. Dozens of them. Destroyed them all.”
“Why?”
“For fear you’d find them and realize that I am embarrassingly, dangerously smitten.”
I kiss his cheek and hold him closer. “Dangerously?”
“Losing my mind. Losing my focus. Losing the last shreds of control.” He presses a gentle kiss to my shoulder.
“I was practically throwing myself at you. Silk sleep sets, remember?”
He trails kisses down my arm. “Because you enjoy watching me suffer.”
“Are you still suffering?”
Mike nods once before kissing the palm of my hand. There’s so much tenderness in his touch, I think my heart might explode. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply. “Good.” I’ll never get over the feel of his lips against mine. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Hmm?” His hands are threaded in my hair again.
“When we first met and ate cookies on Crystal Pier. You never called.”
“Come on, Bea.”
I hold him at arm’s length. “Why?”
“Because you were out of my league. Smart, beautiful, successful. Highly educated. Articulate. A Del Mar heiress.”
“So?”
He brushes the hair out of my face. His fingers linger on my jaw. “So, I was scared.”
“Are you scared now?”
“Terrified, but for completely different reasons.” He interlaces my fingers with his and tugs me toward the door. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place. I’m going to make you breakfast.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“Doesn’t matter. I need stage action if you want me to talk. I’ll lose my focus if…”
I run my nails gently up the back of his neck, brushing my lips against the corner of his mouth.
He pulls away just long enough to sweep me off my feet. I’m laughing. I’m beaming. I’m leaning in and kissing Mike until we both can hardly breathe.
“Cookies,” he says as he carries me outside. “I’ll make your favorite cookies. Come on.”
The kisses stop the moment Mike carries me into his kitchen. Like crossing the threshold transformed him into a serious, focused chef.
It’s an act. I can see how his gaze lingers on me. Moreover, he can’t stop smiling.
“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning against the fridge.
He attempts to sift the sugar but spills a good portion of it all over the counter. “Never better.”
“It’s just your sugar is off-white and clumpy,” I observe.
“It has no bone char in it.”
“So you’re telling me this is fancy sugar.”
“To make fancy cookies. Yes.”
“What type of fancy cookies?”
“Burnt chocolate chip.” Mike presses his lips together, but the smile is still stuck on his face. “With blackberries.”
I gasp. “Can I help?”
“Not if you want me to talk.” He points to the kitchen table.
“Deal.” Keeping my distance is an acceptable price to pay in exchange for answers. “You said you were too scared to call, but then you showed up at Eaton’s birthday party, and I found you sitting on my bed, all smug and judgmental.”
“Mm-hmm. Bravado. We’ll get there, but we have to back up.” He pulls butter, an egg, and the bowl of blackberries from his fridge.
I have to stifle a giggle when he nearly drops them all. “The cosplay?”