Page 58 of The Nook for Brooks
He simply shook his head, positively gleeful in denial.
We ate a little more, then at some point we lay back, shoulder to shoulder, looking up through the canopy of leaves above us. The river continued endlessly on its quiet journey. He folded one hand over his stomach and let the other relax against the edge of the blanket, fingers brushing against mine.
“You know I’m not here forever,” I said. “I mean—obviously. That’s the job.”
“I’m aware.”
“But I…” I paused a moment, unsure where I was going in this unrehearsed moment. “I like this.”
He was silent long enough for me to regret saying it. Then he said, “So do I.”
I turned my head. “I could come back, you know.”
“That implies leaving,” he said.
“It does,” I admitted. “But it also implies returning.”
He considered that, no doubt the same way he considered what to do with a category of books that had run out of shelf space. “We’ll see,” he said, which in Brooks was almost reckless optimism. He looked at his watch. “I have to get back. Customers will be waiting.”
And so we packed up our picnic—me tossing things into the basket any which way, him refolding the blanket with military precision.
When we were done, he brushed an invisible crease from his shirt. “Thank you. For… all of this.”
I grinned. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ve still got half a dozen wrong guesses about your favorite book locked and loaded.”
That earned me the smallest smile, but it was real. “I think I’d like you to stay with me tonight. In my little tower. Is that a notion you’d… entertain?”
I grinned. “I would love to entertain that notion.”
He held out his hand and I took it.
We started back toward the bridge, side by side, steps syncing without us trying.
That night, Brooks’s tower glowed.
I followed him up the spiral staircase, his fingers entwined with mine. When I stepped into his small apartment, I stopped short. Candles glowed on the shelves, their light turning the book spines into little bars of gold. A decanter of wine and two glasses waited on the table, and a scatter of cushions softened the room. It was romantic in a way I hadn’t expected from him—careful, yes, but warmer, looser, as if he’d set order aside just enough to let me in.
He took my jacket, hung it neatly, then fussed with his bow tie like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “I don’t usually… entertain,” he said, almost apologetic.
“You could’ve fooled me,” I said, stepping closer. “This looks like you hired the set designer from a romance movie.”
That got the smallest laugh. It stopped when I leaned in and kissed him.
Slow. Patient. Certain.
There was no storm outside, no rattling bath plug, no chaos this time. Just candles, quiet, and the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
He fussed with his bow tie again, and I leaned in, tugged it loose with my teeth, and he made a sound I’d never heard from him before—half laugh, half gasp.
“Improper,” he whispered.
“Exactly,” I murmured, the bow tie dangling from my teeth.
That’s when we undressed each other—different than before. Not frantic, but curious. Every button undone, every slip of fabric revealed something new. He folded his clothes into a tidy pile on the chair. I stripped fast and tossed mine in the corner. He frowned at that, then surprised me by letting them stay where they landed.
“Progress,” I teased.
“Don’t push your luck.”
