Maybe Later(36)

“There is no concert schedule,” I inform him. “Unless there’s a museum in the area I don’t know about, I don’t think you can assume I’m going to enjoy this next stop.”

He smiles at me with one of those toe-curling smirks I’m starting to love. What is this guy doing to me? There are never butterflies swarming inside me when I spot a hot guy, but this one is making me lose my cool.

Actually, I don’t have any recollection of having a toe-curling, pulse accelerating, heart melting moments. But this man pushed me into that place, and I can’t seem to find my footing.

“And if I don’t like it?” I ask, giving him a challenging glare.

Where is my A game? Not that I have one, but why am I being so love struck? Usually, I can make guys feel adequate. But this man is just throwing on the charm, being all gentlemanly and making me swoon. It’s his kind, perfect, competent, and handsome men. I’ve never been confronted with one of those guys before.

I bet this guy never takes no for an answer. Why is he even wasting his time with me? Okay, now I’m being insecure. But seriously, what does he see in me? I look down at my clothes. There’s nothing special about them. I’m wearing a pair of jeans, a turtleneck sweater, and my favorite boots, my hair is piled into a sloppy bun.

As we arrived at a small shop, I smile.

“I hate to admit it, but you’re right,” I concede.

But then, I stop myself wondering what made him think I would like an antique store. “Are we here for something special?”

“Take this as an adventure. We’re looking for treasure,” he answers with the best words, adventure and treasure.

Marry me, you’re perfect.

How does he know? I adore treasure hunting and antique shops.

“I remember going to my grandmother’s house,” I say. Right when we enter the shop I spot a frame in the shape of a fan. Inside there’s a collection of spoons. “She lived in Upstate New York, and her house was like a palace.”

I still remember the opulent house, surrounded by evergreens and a rock fence. She had a horse stable and a tennis court. I don’t remember everything in detail, but she had so many collectibles around the house.

“A palace filled with treasures from all over the world. Every piece had a story. She collected spoons from every country she visited. Decorative plates hung on the walls of the breakfast nook.”

“The house was like a friendly museum filled with treasures and I loved listening to her stories. Her library was composed of rare and antique books, classics, from all around the world. She was a translator, I remember that well because I wanted to be just like her.”

“A translator?”

“Yes, she traveled all around the world with dignitaries and celebrities,” I explained. “Sometimes, she’d even work at ruins with archeologists. I can’t even remember how many languages she spoke, but the woman was interesting.”

I find an old pocket watch with an inscription I can’t read. Though I love what I do, I regret not following in Grandma’s footsteps. I always wanted to be like her and travel all over the world meeting new people and collecting memories.

“I collect books because of her,” I explain to him as I continue walking through the past. “Antiques, are a different story. There are times when I find something worth keeping for myself, other times I restore antiques only to find them a new owner or a new purpose.”

Jack kisses my nose and says, “If I’d known you’d be this happy, I’d have brought you straight here.”

“How did you guess?” I have to know. No one really knows about my passion for antiques.

“I took a wild guess. You were in your element when I stepped into the bookstore. I hoped this would bring you equally as much joy. Tell me more about your grandmother.”

There’s not much to tell him about her, but I try to fill in the blanks, recalling mostly the objects she possessed.

“Is your grandmother still alive?”

I shrug. “We stopped visiting her a long time ago, I wouldn’t know.”

“What about you? Do you know your grandparents?”

“Mom’s parents died in a car accident when I was about four. Dad’s parents are pretty cool.”

I’m glad he tells me about them openly. Family history is what forges people’s personalities. It doesn’t define them, but it affects who they become.

“How about your other grandparents?” he asks, showing me an old creepy doll. “This would haunt me in my dreams.”

I shrug. “Only Mom’s mom. My parents had us late, my mom was forty-three and my dad was fifty-two. I don’t think his parents were around anymore when we came along.”

“Your family seems scattered,” he concludes.

Scattered is the tip of the iceberg, buddy.

“Yeah, we aren’t close.” Try at all. “My parents expected a lot from us. I became a bit rebellious.”

He glances at me and shakes his head. “You like bookstores, museums, and play classical music,” he says giving me another curious look and chuckles. “Typical problem child.”

“You don’t know my parents,” I offer.

“Confession time,” he says. “What kind of trouble did you get in?”

“I skipped curfew, partied, and even had a few flings at sixteen.” I gasp and pretend to clutch my pearls.