Page 41 of First Echo

"We should trade sometime," I suggested impulsively. "You could recommend a book you think I'd actually like, and I could... I don't know, draw something for you."

The idea seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. "You'd draw something for me?"

"Sure, why not?" I tried to sound casual, though the idea of creating something specifically for Brooke made my heart beat a little faster for some reason. "Consider it further apology for being an asshole about your book."

"Deal," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Though we both know I've got the harder task. Finding a book that Madeline Hayes would deign to read? Nearly impossible."

"Oh please, I read," I protested.

"School-assigned books don't count."

"I've read plenty of non-school books!"

"Name three," she challenged, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, realizing I'd walked right into her trap. "Okay, fine, maybe I'm more of a magazine person. But that's still reading."

She laughed, a full, genuine laugh that made something shift in my chest. "I'll find you something good. Something that will blow your mind."

"I look forward to it," I said, surprised to find I meant it.

We ordered another round of beers, falling into an easy conversation that meandered from subject to subject—favorite movies (she loved old classics, I preferred action and romance), music (we both had a secret fondness for '80s hits), places wewanted to travel someday. It was surprising how easy it was to talk to her, how the time seemed to slip away.

"Okay, I've got one for you," I said after our third beer, feeling warm and slightly buzzed. "Best memory from childhood. Go."

She thought for a moment, her eyes drifting to the middle distance. "My tenth birthday. My parents surprised me with a weekend trip to this little cabin by a lake. No special reason, just the three of us swimming and hiking and making s'mores. Simple, but perfect."

The wistfulness in her voice made my heart ache for her. "That sounds really nice."

"It was," she agreed softly. "Your turn."

I searched my memories, trying to find one that felt as genuine as hers. "When I was eight, I got really sick—some kind of flu. I had a high fever, felt terrible. Julian was at a friend's house, and my parents had some charity event they couldn't miss, so our housekeeper was supposed to watch me."

"Sounds like a great memory so far," Brooke said dryly.

"Wait, it gets better," I assured her. "After my parents left, our housekeeper—Lucía—decided I needed more than just medicine. She brought a TV into my room, something strictly forbidden normally, and we had this impromptu movie marathon. She made homemade soup, built a fort on my bed with extra blankets, and stayed with me the whole night, even after her shift was supposed to end."

I smiled at the memory, the feeling of being cared for so completely, so unselfishly. "When my parents came home and found us both asleep in this ridiculous blanket fort with the TV still on, I thought she'd get in trouble. But instead, my mom just smiled—not her usual polite smile, but a real one. She thanked Lucía for taking such good care of me, and after that, things were different. Warmer, somehow. At least for a while."

Brooke was watching me intently, a soft expression on her face. "That's a beautiful memory."

"Yeah," I agreed. "One of my best."

Our eyes met across the table, and I felt that strange flutter again, stronger this time. We'd moved past the superficial conversations of acquaintances, beyond the barbed exchanges of enemies, into something new and undefined.

It was almost midnight when we decided to head back to the resort. Outside, the snow had stopped, leaving everything blanketed in a fresh layer of white that glittered under the streetlights. The air was cold and clear, stars visible in patches between scattered clouds.

"Thanks for dragging me out tonight," Brooke said as we walked. "It was... actually really nice."

"Don't sound so surprised," I teased, bumping my shoulder gently against hers. "I occasionally have good ideas."

"Very occasionally," she agreed with a smile.

We walked in comfortable silence, our breaths forming small clouds that mingled in the space between us. I was acutely aware of her presence beside me—the soft sound of her footsteps in the snow, the faint smell of her shampoo when the breeze blew just right, the way the moonlight caught in her dark hair.

What was happening to me? This warmth I felt around her, this strange pull—it wasn't something I'd experienced before. Or if I had, I'd never allowed myself to acknowledge it. With Brooke, though, it was becoming harder to ignore.

When we reached the resort, the lobby was quiet, just a few night owls still gathered by the dying fire. We took the stairs to our floor, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. At our door, Brooke fumbled with the key, her injured hand still clumsy.

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