Page 12 of The Pretender
Balt nods. “When I can, yes.”
“Okay. You know the indie bookstore in the city on Jersey Ave?”
“Yes, actually. I went to a signing there a few years ago.”
“For who?”
“Henry Leigh Waterson. He writes science fiction.”
My eyes widen. “I know him. Well, not personally. I mean, I knowofhim. I got one of his books as a gift one year. Um, what was it called? Oh,The Mars Odyssey. Did you read it?”
“That’s the signing I went to.”
I laugh softly. “That’s so cool. My cousin got me the book because it was so hyped up that year. I liked it.”
“I enjoyed the story. I left before I got it signed. The crowd was too much for me.”
“I bet. We could have met at the bookstore. I bumped into you and knocked the books out of your hand.”
Balt raises an eyebrow. “That sounds a bit contrived. How about I spotted you and simply had to know your name? You were too pretty to not talk to.”
I feel my cheeks warming as a shy smile tugs at my lips. “That’s really sweet.”
“And accurate.”
“We grabbed a coffee together and spent the afternoon chatting about books.”
“Then I asked for your phone number, and the rest is history.”
“On our first date, I knew you were gonna be important to me.”
Balt’s gaze heats. “And I knew the minute I saw your face.”
“So, you’re a romantic at heart?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I tell it like it is. A trait that can complicate relationships at times.”
“I like truth and directness. I don’t like trying to figure out what people mean.”
“Something else we have in common.”
I smile. “How long have we been dating?”
“You decide.”
Shrugging, I shake my head. “Maybe we should keep it kind of short to explain why we might not know some things about each other.”
“Fine, but will they think it’s odd that you’re bringing me home to meet them already?”
“Nope. I’m the spontaneous one, remember? Besides, they’re very welcoming people, and they’ll mostly accept my judgment. So don’t murder all of us or anything, alright?”
“I’ll try not to,” he says in a deadpan tone. “Four months?”
“Four months is good.” I sip my coffee, thinking of more questions I should know the answer to. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Black.”
“That’s not a color. It’s a neutral.”
