Page 30 of Love Grows

“Do you want to open your gift?” I asked, and Steph’s face broke into a delighted smile.

“Absolutely.” She sprang off the stool and fossicked about in the second-from-the-top cutlery drawer, then stood, brandishing a pair of scissors like an adorable serial killer.

Snipping aside the ribbon, she tore through the wrapping and squeaked at the books.

“I haven’t got any of these! Thank you.” Then she pointed the scissors at me. “Ted?”

“Yes. I’ve convinced him that the entire sapphic population of Melbourne will flood into his shop if he stocked all indie and small press authors as well as the mainstream ones. He wholeheartedly agreed and prepared sandbags of books ready for the onslaught.”

Steph leaned over the counter and kissed me.

“Thank you. You’re very sweet.”

“I’m a giant marshmallow.”

“Yes.” She giggled and grabbed my hand, leading me into the lounge. I was right. It did require a tour. There were pictures of her parents, of places she’d travelled to, piles of books arranged artfully and one bookshelf holding sapphic books where every title was categorised by trope.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I take my pseudo-librarian role seriously,” Steph threw a mock frown at me, and I laughed. It was lovely. The hand-holding, the shoulders bumping, the occasional kiss, the quiet voices. I loved all of it.

Steph ran her finger along the spines of the books, then made little spaces to house her new novels.

“You should wear sexy glasses when you do that. It’d be like you’re cosplaying a trope.”

Steph laughed. “I should. Too bad I don’t need glasses, but it’s definitely a thought. Maybe on your next visit, I’ll shuffle a shelf or two then sort the books wearing tweed and lens-free spectacles.”

I looked at her, then fell about laughing. “Oh my god. The specifics.”

Steph joined in with laughter of her own. “Right. Dinner.”

Still with my hand clutched in hers, she brought me to the dining table. Scandinavian piece, I guessed.

“Sit. I’ll bring it over.”

Our conversation meandered throughout dinner. Catching glances, smiling, making serious eye-contact that, if we’d held it for too long, would have let our food go cold. As it was, we took our time to get to know each other over the meal.

Much later, as I ate a luscious mouthful of the creamy dessert, I asked the question that had been buzzing in my head for the evening. I’d spotted a framed picture of Steph’s parents but I’d not seen one photo of a man who looked like Steph anywhere in the lounge or kitchen. “What does your brother do? You rarely mention him at all.”

Steph looked at her placemat. “Oh…” A shadow seemed to pass over her face, then she stood to collect our bowls. “He’s in building development.” She gave me a tight smile, then bustled into the kitchen.

I nodded slowly. Okay. That was deliberately vague. Fancy address, brother in a potentially lucrative career, fluent Greek. I felt like, with my question, I’d helped close some shutters into Steph Thatcher’s heart and mind and that wasn’t what I wanted at all. But suddenly, with all the kisses and long looks and handholding and soft touches on arms and backs, I wanted to know everything about her. I knew she was beautiful, sexy, hot, empathetic and just a good person, but I wanted to know the who. The when. The why. The how.All of the how. Including how she’d gotten under my skin in the most sensual manner possible.

If I wasn’t careful, I’d be Steph’s something, and I’d been burned before when I’d been someone’s something. Yet how had she become so important to me in such a short time?

“Do you want a tour or is that a bit bougie?” Steph was at my shoulder.

I stood, and reached for her hand. Steph was nearly always the one instigating the hand-holding. I wanted my fair share.

She led me to the study which contained the overflow bookcase.

“I have an addiction,” she said, shaking her head with a grin.

“That’s okay. I collect plants. It’s why I sell them all. So I can buy more.”

She laughed.

“This is my room.”

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