Page 85 of Reel Love

I look around my ten by ten kitchen. It serves me, and I’m not ashamed of it. I like living simply. I don’t begrudge people who live more affluent lives. I’ve just never had a need for anything beyond this small bungalow.

Alana’s still beaming. “And down that hall?”

“Ah, yes. The hallway, passageway, corridor, portico …” I chuckle.

“You’re just showing off now.”

“You think?”

She smiles. “So, down the corridor?”

“That is the master’s quarters and the powder room, dressing room, spa facilities, and gentleman’s wardrobe.”

She busts out laughing. And I’m joining her, even though I’m not that funny. There’s this contagious lightness between us and it’s ballooning the longer we’re together.

Joy. Maybe this is joy.

“May I see where you keep your glasses?”

“My … glasses?”

She nods shyly.

“What is it with you and my glasses?” I smile at her warmly for no other reason than the fact that she makes me smile.

“I imagined you wearing them.”

“Ahhh. Well, far be it from me to keep you from realizing a fantasy. Besides,” I say, as I turn on the hall light and walk thethree steps it takes to get to my bedroom door. “I have to outshine these inaccurate fantasies you have about my younger brother. Firemen. Pfft. What’s so hot about that?”

I open my bedroom door and she follows me, lingering in the doorway.

“Probably nothing,” she says with a taunt in her voice. “Firemen. Totally not hot.”

“Exactly. Trust me. Biologists are where it’s at.”

“Do you want a T-shirt?”

“I have one.”

“Really?” She's slack jawed.

“Yeah. MyBiologists Are The Hottestshirt? It’s right through here.” I move toward my closet, then I stop, turn toward her and smile. “No. I don’t own that shirt. That would be ridiculous. And troublesome. Women would … Yeah. No.”

“Women would what?”

“They don’t need a billboard, or a T-shirt.”

“I bet.” She smiles and her gaze grows appreciative.

It may be the first time I’ve ever wanted anyone to look at me the way she’s looking at me right now. I walk to the side table, pull open the drawer and extract my glasses from the place where I store them.

“Is that the octopus book?” she asks from her spot in my doorway. She’s leaning against the jamb now.

“It is.” I hold it up.

There’s this nearly imperceptible lift of her brows. Her eyes soften.

Oh, why not? I’ve gone this far, I may as well …

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