Page 12 of Claimed and Catalogued
“There are so many things wrong with that sentence.”
“I don’t think so. Real men are annoying as hell. They don’t listen, they disappear when it matters, and they always think they’re right. You know what my book boyfriend does?”
“Nothing… because he’s not real?”
“Ha Ha. Ha.” She bites back a smile. “No. My book boyfriend says all the right things, and he’s always listening to me.”
“Oh yeah? Something tells me he’s a man of few words.” I take a sip of beer watching her try not to laugh.
“You’re a jerk.” She cups her hands around her mouth as though she’s trying to amplify her voice as she calls out,“A jerk who makes jam.”
I throw up my hands, playfulness in my tone as I say, “Great. There goes my reputation. I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”
“I bet my book boyfriend would forgive me.” She bites back a grin and tips the last of her beer back before setting it onto the counter with a clink.
“Yeah, but would he buy you dinner?”
She laughs, but it’s softer now. “Ya know, he’s never bought me dinner. Not once.” She tilts her head to the side and scans me over as though she’s sizing me up. “I’m not sure that proves anything, though. I still think you’re all in my head.”
I raise a brow. “The cupboards full of strawberry jam beg to differ.”
“Think about it. You show up out of nowhere, all big, brooding, mysterious. confident, intense, emotionally unavailable,and yet you make jam.Honestly, you’re suspiciously well written.”
“So, you manifested me?”
She shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.”
Biting back a laugh, I help her to her feet, thinking it’s time we soak up some of this alcohol with dinner. Upon standing, she stumbles just slightly, landing closer than she meant to. Her body presses into mine for a beat too long, and neither of us moves away.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, wide, warm, and just a little glassy from the beer. “You feel real.”
I lean in, my voice low as I say, “I am.”
She doesn’t say anything, just lets me guide her toward the back booth, past the crowd and the band and the noise.
We slide into the booth, our knees brushing, her hand still in mine. She doesn’t pull away.
“You know,” she says, settling in, “if you’re imaginary, I’m gonna be really pissed when the delusion is over.”
I smirk. “Then maybe I should prove I’m not a delusion.”
Her breath catches, and her gaze drops to my mouth. “How would you do that?”
I lean in, slow and deliberate, as though I don’t have a fucking care in the world. “I could kiss you.”
She doesn’t blink. She just stares at me.
“Then do it,” she whispers.
So, I do.I lean into her soft lips, tasting the faint beer and the cinnamon ChapStick she wears. It’s been so damn long since I’ve been with a woman, but touching Evie is natural. My hand moves up her frame and into her silky hair with ease as though it belongs there.
She lets out the tiniest moan and my chest tightens. I’m not sure what it is at first. I figure it’s the thrill of the moment or maybe nerves. It’s been a while since I’ve touched a woman like this.
Then, all at once, I realize it’s guilt. She’s younger than me, bright-eyed, open-hearted. She’s laughing, she’s happy, and she trusts me. And while I’ve been honest to a point, I haven’t been forthcoming about a very important detail. I haven’t told her that I’ve got her brother’s file on my phone. I haven’t told her that I’m the one who’s going to blow her family apart.
I pull back, just enough to breathe, just enough to look at her and potentially change my mind.
Her brows knit. “What’s wrong?”
