Page 9 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

I shake my head at him. He’s ridiculous. Ridiculous and kind andfun, and I really need to talk with him alone, but I guess it’s going to have to wait until after this weekend.

“I think if you just slip out now, I can do some damage control and have a relatively normal weekend with my parents.”

And Sam looks...disappointed. Like he maybe did want to spend the afternoon pretending to be my ex who was trying to win me back. But before I can say anything, the screen door creaks open and my mom pokes her head out.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Sam, you’re staying for dinner, right? Please say yes, I brought so much extra food.”

Sam’s eyes flicker between me and my mom, and then she holds out a tray of steaks that my dad has already seasoned for the grill. A grin spreads over Sam’s face.

“Mrs. Lacross, it would be my pleasure.”

Chapter 5

Samuel

Remy’s thigh keepsbrushing against mine, but not in a sexy way. We are at the table with his parents, demolishing plates of steak and potato salad and grilled corn, and Remy’s leg will not stop bouncing. His nervousness is adorable, but also it’s jostling me so much that my water glass threatens to slosh onto the table.

Carefully, I slip a hand under the table and rest it on his knee.

He jerks beside me, his other leg knocking into the table’s crossbeam and making the whole thing shudder.

“Relax,” I whisper into his ear.

That has the opposite of the desired effect.

Dinner ends (weirdly and disappointingly withoutbirthday cake, what the hell?), and then we pile into Remy’s little living room where his dad opens a suitcase to reveal board game after board game. His eyes are bright and excited, and when I glance over at Remy, his expression mirrors his dad. It’s clear that this istheirthing. My heart does a little shuffle step, thinking about little Remington Lacross, stretched out on the living room carpet, playingSettlers of Catanwith his dad.

While they set up and argue about tile placement, I wander around the cabin. No photographs, no keepsakes, not even any music. I find little of Remy here—except for shelf after shelf of books. Every wall is covered in them, everything from nice, heavy wooden shelves to rickety fiberboard contraptions and milk crates turned on their sides.

I pause at one low bookshelf and stare.

Above the books by C. S. Lewis and George Orwell, the wall is completely papered with familiar pieces of cardstock. A couple dozen slips of paper, all scrawled with my handwriting. Remy saved them. I never put much thought into what would happen to the quotes once I left them in his hands. I hadn’t imagined this.

Behind me, Remy clears his throat, a nervous, involuntary sound, but when I turn toward him, he’s still setting up the game board with his dad. Completely absorbed in the task, not watching me at all. Still, I’m pretty sure the back of his neck is a little pinker than normal.

And I’m sympathetic. I really am. Not that I’m much prone to embarrassment myself, but I know Remy must be uncomfortable tonight. He probably can’t wait for us all to leave.

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