Page 15 of Finding Home

His lips curled into a grin. “No Miss Bennets, Watsons, or Dashwoods for me. Certainly, no Caroline Bingleys.”

A charge zinged in the air between them. The listing of characters from Austen’s novels offered the masquerade of letting each other know they were available without the words being said.

Am I available?There wasn’t anyone waiting for her, but that didn’t mean she was open. For the first time she wanted to be, but wasn’t sure why.

“My first Austen wasPride and Prejudice,” he said.

“It’s the Austen gateway drug.”

His lips quirked. “I got it from the school library. I was hooked. I loved the relationship between Lizzie and Jane. I saw myself in Darcy. As I read more Austen, I saw myself in more characters. I re-read them every couple of years, they’re like old friends. I discover more things I like about them each time.”His smile was wistful.“I didn’t understand why you were always reading her books until I read Lizzie and Darcy’s story. Then I got it.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Wait. Me?”

He rubbed at his nape. “At football practice in high school, you’d be sitting on the bleachers, waiting for Coach. You were always reading. Sometimes books from English and a lot of Jane Austen. Your face would tell the story of what was happening on the page. Like I knew if something was good, bad, sad, or silly was happening just by looking at you. You’re very expressive when you read.”

“I didn’t know you were watching.”

A strange sensation bloomed within her at the idea of this man being so enamored with her teenaged facial expressions that he’d read Austen, the romantic primer for so many young women. Goosebumps skipped across her skin. Who knew aconversation about Jane Austen would elicit the heat cascading through her?

“Not in a creepy way,” he was quick to clarify, a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Just curious. When I read my first, I got it. So, thank you. My mom also thanks you, because I am the one person in our family that will watch a Jane Austen movie with her.”

“To think we could have let you join our little Jane Austen Sisterhood in high school. Although, you would have grunted just like you did in Spanish class,” she joked.

“Probably. I wasn’t a big talker then.”

“Like Fitzwilliam Darcy. IsPride and Prejudiceyour favorite?”

“That’s a tough question. I think it changes depending on, well, life. What remains constant is I relate the most to Darcy. I know, I’m a cliché. I have a literary crush on Elinor Dashwood. I would love to have a beer with Mr. Knightley. But the story that gets me every time isPersuasion.”

“Is that why it’s on the bed-stand in the Little Red Barn? Is your Airbnb a brilliant ploy to get guests to read your favorite book?” She smirked.

“I wish I was that devious. I left it for you. From one Austen fan to another.”

Their gazes twined together in the quiet beat that stretched between them. Elle’s heartbeat sped with the intensity of his stare.

“What’s your favorite?”

Elle let the simple but loaded question simmer. A favorite book revealed so much about a person. Clayton’s favorite hinted of a desire for second chances at happiness. Her eyes waltzed from the little blue farmhouse to the Little Red Barn and down to the snoring love nugget in her arms. Was this his second chance or was it still out there? Was he Captain Wentworthreturning, transformed into something more, ready to claim his happy ending?

Maybe she was reading too much into this. What she wanted to say was she related the most to Elinor Dashwood, had a literary crush on Mr. Darcy, and wanted to sip mimosas with Mary Crawford. Who wouldn’t? The lady knew how to party and was, perhaps, a very misunderstood character. Instead, what she said was, “Sense and Sensibilityis my favorite.”

“That’s my mom’s favorite too.”

It grew quiet again. Not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Both lost in their own musings or in each other’s answers.

“So, you do yoga.” He motioned to her mat.

“I run most days, but yoga is my daily centering.”

“I have some favorite trails. If you want to join—” He paused for a second. “—or if not, I can show you where they are so you can run on your own. The trails are safer than running on the roads.” He tugged at his hat’s brim.

Sweetness dripped from the nervous way he asked her to go running and the concern for her safety. It all blended in an adorable package. Even if that package was wrapped up with all those muscles.

“That would be nice.”

“Which?”he asked, hope sparking in his eyes.

For a moment, she also wanted to know which… To run with him or on her own? Her normal response would be to run alone, but those rambunctious butterflies said otherwise.

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