Page 25 of The Bookbinder's Guide to Love

But it was going to be a long time before he again felt the way Sera’d made him feel as he’d moved inside her. The cries she’d made when she came and the way she’d put her head on his shoulder afterward had made him ache for more from her and from himself. He had started to let go, and then in the bathroom hadn’t been able to stop the tears or the hurt and pain.

He preferred not to experience any of the three.

He brought his mug closer and had to stop. There was whipped cream covering it. He looked over at Sera, who was delicately sipping hers. He took a sip, trying to be chill and get into whatever vibe it was she was going for.

But she kept blinking, and he knew she was struggling not to cry. She missed her friend.

He wanted to tell her it was okay to let go, but just as he’d spent a few extra minutes in the bathroom crying by himself, he suspected she wanted the same. He had no good reason to stay, except...he didn’t want to leave. Which should have been the impetus for him to get off his ass and out of her house.

When he finished the cocoa, he’d go. He closed the journal, not wanting to see any more glimpses into Sera’s life with his grandfather. Or her life in general. His stomach was tight, and adrenaline was starting to rush through him. It felt like he was about to do something dumb.

So instead, he looked at the journal’s binding. The fabric glue she’d used to adhere it to the cover had come undone, probably from repeated use. He pulled the journal closer again, opening the cover and leaning over it. If she’d used a different binding...

He reached into the pocket of his coat; he had a thin piece of leather that he’d been trying to match to the old book he’d taken apart earlier.

He took it out.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing this.”

But he stopped as she pulled the journal toward her. “Don’t. I like it this way.”

“I can make it better,” he said. That was what he did. When his emotions got to be too much, he fixed things.

“Ilikeit this way,” she said. “But thanks.”

“It will continue to degrade if you leave it. The fraying on the fabric—”

“Will continue. It’s a shabby-chic journal. When I put the burlap on the cover here, I deliberately pulled out a few strands so it would start to do this.”

She lifted both eyebrows at him as he looked up at her.

“I wasn’t mansplaining.”

“Maybe a smidge. But I get it. I’m the same way when I see an old book in a shop with a torn cover. I want to try to fix it. Sometimes the charm in a book is that it’s tattered.”

She touched the cover with a look of fondness in her eyes. As if she related to the journal in more ways than just the words inside it.

“Just in books?” he asked.

She tipped her head to the side and her hair dipped away from her face, those curls looking ethereal in the light from the kitchen. “Everything seems a little more interesting when it’s been lived-in.”

Maybe, he thought. “Lived-in and worn are two different things.”

He took a huge swallow of his cocoa, trying to finish it quickly. He needed to get out of here.

“It’s not worn-out yet,” she said. “But the fact that you thought of using the binding tells me you’re going to ace the interview tomorrow.”

“That’s nothing.”

“What is something that rattles you, then?” she asked.

“Dealing with Grandpa’s friends,” he said, remembering how the funeral director had asked him if anyone wanted to speak at the service. Hamish had already said yes, and Wes knew his father would probably not have anything to say. Did she? He really wanted to make up for telling her she couldn’t attend the funeral. He got why she hadn’t trusted him.

“Um...I know I was a dick about the funeral, but do you want to speak at his service?”

Her eyes widened. “I guess that spell I put in the cocoa worked.”

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