Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(56)

“Wait, where are you going?” He caught my arm.

I spun, my eyes going to where his hand encircled my wrist. He immediately let me go.

“I thought I might practice the violin again,” I said while rubbing my wrist. An arm grab had never felt so good.

His attention flickered to the door behind me. “You’re going to practice outside?”

Bah! My overthinking about his indirect compliments had me all turned around.

“No, uh, obviously not. I’m going upstairs. To my room.” Taking a pivoting step, I aimed in the direction of the back stairs, and said, “Fare thee well.”

And then I grimaced at having said fare thee well while endeavoring to keep my pace unhurried.

He shadowed my steps all the way down the hall and into the kitchen before calling suddenly, “I guess you don’t want to go to Anderson’s with me then.”

If I’d been making tracks, I would have stopped in them. Anderson’s? The bookstore?

But if I go, I’ll be spending time with Abram, which is a bad idea.

I swatted away good intentions and sense and I turned completely around. “Anderson’s? As in the bookstore?” I asked, doing nothing to mask the naked hope of my expression or in my voice.

I couldn’t hide them. No one was that good at lying.

“Yeah.” He sighed, sounding regretful even though his brown eyes were glittering mischievously. His lips remained flat, but that left dimple winked at me, a slight indent in his cheek. No wonder he covers his mouth when he smiles, that dimple is his tell.

But I didn’t care if he thought it was funny to dangle a bookstore visit as a carrot, I didn’t care if he was inwardly laughing at me. I wanted to go. I wanted to go very, very badly.

“I was going to drive over, and then grab some food”—he shrugged—“but if you want to practice violin instead, then—”

“Let’s go!”





13





Newton’s Third Law of Motion: Symmetry in Forces





Unsurprisingly, Abram insisted on driving to Anderson’s Bookshop.

On the way, we discussed options for a post-shopping meal. What he didn’t know was that I planned to spend as much time at the bookstore as possible, so most of the lunch places he suggested wouldn’t be open by the time we left. I didn’t correct him. Let him believe what he wanted, we wouldn’t be leaving that bookstore until after closing if I could help it.

Upon arriving, I made a beeline for the nearest display, not caring about the genre. I planned to go through every single section, every shelf, every book. When I went back to being Mona, I would never take for granted the ability to go where I wanted, when I wanted, ever again.

Abram and I stuck together most of the time, him pointing out books he thought were interesting, or ones he thought I might like, or asking me what I thought about a title or a cover or a blurb. Eventually, I began doing the same with him.

It was . . . fun. I was having a great time, the comradery, the quiet, the whispers, and the inevitable snickering when we made it to the romance section. (My snickering, not his).

“What are you laughing at?” he whispered, trying to get a good look at the cover of the book I was holding.

I pressed the cover to my chest. “Nothing.” It was the most ridiculous cover—a cross-stitched beard—with the dumbest title I’d ever seen—Grin and Beard It.

Abram glanced between me and the back of the novel. “You read romance?”

“Um, no,” I said, tucking the book back where it belonged. Serious people with serious thoughts didn’t read romance novels.

“Why not?”

I gave him a look. “Why would I?”

“You like to read, right?”

“Uh, yes. But—”

“You should try this.” Abram selected a novel from a nearby shelf and showed me the cover.

I scanned the title, glanced at Abram, and then placed it back on the shelf. “No, thank you. I don’t read that kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” He grabbed it again, leaning a shoulder against the shelf, giving me the sense of being caged in (but not in a bad way).

I made a face as I inspected him, unable to discern whether he was poking fun at me, or the author, or what, so I said, “I’ll read it if you read it.”

“Deal.” He handed it to me again. “I like this author.”

I reared back, shocked, stunned, shocked again. “You read romance?”

“Yes.”

I blinked at him several times; apparently my eyes couldn’t believe my ears. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.” He leaned closer, smiling down at me like he thought I was cute, or my disbelief was cute, or something like that.

“Prove it. What else has this author written? And no looking at the shelf or the book I’m holding.” I hid the novel by twisting away, but my attention remained on Abram’s face, enthralled. I still couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Let’s see, uh, Devil In Winter—that was a really good one—and the other book I really liked was Love in the Afternoon. The main character was obsessed with animals.” His smile grew as his eyes drifted over my shoulder. “She cracked me up.”