Bookish and the Beast (Once Upon a Con #3)(52)

Rosie’s father checks his watch. “I’m heading to the apartment later to talk to the landlord and the insurance company about the damages. They have to rip up the carpet and see if the hardwood is ruined or not.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rosie says. “Just let me get dressed first.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to help—and besides, it’s silly to have two cars here. We can ride back here together this evening.”

Elias agrees. “And since you treated us to breakfast, I can treat you to dinner.”

Rosie’s father hesitates, but he’s won over when Elias gives him a smile. My eyebrows jerk up, and I glance over at Rosie, who is smiling from behind her fingers. Oh. Oh. “Well, all right—but just tell us when we start to impose.”

“You aren’t,” I say before Elias has a chance to, and the words surprise even me. I shove a piece of chocolate syrup–drowned pancake around on my plate. “I mean, the house is so large I didn’t notice either of you here last night.”

Rosie finger-guns her father. “And it helps we don’t snore.”

“Right you are, Rosebud,” he replies, finger-gunning her right back, and then he nods toward the stairs. “Okay, go get ready.”

She jumps off the barstool and races up to her and her father’s room. She’s down in five minutes, in jeans and a large T-shirt, pulling her hair back with a black scrunchie. Rosie’s father tries to clean up the kitchen, but Elias decides to have none of it and shoos him out.

“You cooked, I clean,” he points out.

“Fine, fine—ready to go?” he asks Rosie, putting a hand on her shoulder, and they leave through the garage.

When they’re gone, Elias gives me a sidelong look. “Not imposing, hmm?”

I spear the pancake, trying to quell the blush blooming on my cheeks. Because the Vance of a month ago would’ve not said anything. He would’ve asked them to leave as soon as possible. He would’ve hated this sweet disaster of a breakfast. He wouldn’t have admitted that, in the darkest part of his heart, it really wasn’t that bad. Instead I clear my throat and tell him, “You have a crush.”

He scoffs. “I do not.”

“Do too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he replies, but he’s so flustered his ears are beginning to turn red. He grabs my plate from the counter even though I’m still pushing the last bite around in the syrup and dumps it into the sink to start washing it.

“Whatever you say,” I reply, and slide off the barstool. I grab Sansa’s lead and whistle at her between my teeth to take her out on a walk while he’s sorting through his feelings.

I might never have been in love, but I know what it looks like, and Elias is head over heels.





THAT EVENING, AFTER DAD AND I RETURN from the apartment, where the electrician tore out the oven and the wall that had been damaged, we ate dinner with Mr. Rodriguez and Vance again—we order Chinese this time, from the great little takeout place down the street. I didn’t realize Vance could put down so much food; it’s really quite monstrous, because I thought I was the eggroll-eating champion. Alas, it seems I was dethroned. I didn’t mind it that much.

After we watch a few hours of TV and Mr. Rodriguez retires to bed, I do the dishes with my dad and talk a little about the new oven and microwave being installed tomorrow, and the plasterwork, and having to repaint half of the kitchen again—but I really don’t mind. I hated the old appliances anyway.

“And what have we learned?” I ask, handing him the last plate.

He replies gallantly, “Never put tinfoil in the microwave.”

“Good.”

He kisses me good night and leaves for his room. I change into my pajamas and slink down to the couch again, thinking everyone has gone to bed—but I freeze on the bottom step.

I was wrong.

Vance is lying down, legs flipped up over the back of the couch, head lolling off the other side. With his eyes closed, he doesn’t look as worried or brooding as he usually does, which surprises me. I thought he probably frowns in his sleep, but he actually looks…well, not terrible to look at is the only concession I’m giving.

I turn to creep back up the stairs when he says, a little blearily, “Can’t sleep either?”

…Guess he’s not asleep after all.

I turn back around to him. He pushes himself up on the couch and motions for me to come sit. I do, mostly because I can’t sleep. This house is too big and too quiet.

As I get closer, he holds up a book. “I want to know what happens.”

The Starless Throne.

I bite the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. “Do you, now?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

I climb over the couch to sink down beside him. “Probably not all afternoon.”

“Does Sond get out of prison? Does Amara save the planet? Who’s the murderer? Are they ever going to kiss?” He asks the last one a little impatiently. “I want to know.”

In the dim light of the living room, his golden hair shines in a platinum halo around his head, and his cornflower eyes are bright with curiosity. He really does want to know what happens. I’ve read it a thousand times, I can recite most of the chapters by heart. I know what the words sound like in my head, but I don’t know what they sound like in his.