What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(18)

I thought my hands couldn’t shake more than they did when I stood on his porch, waiting for him to open the door after I knocked. I thought I couldn’t get any more nervous than I already was to be alone with him — a man. An older man. An older man who could easily overpower me, if he wanted to. And I thought my stomach couldn’t wind up any tighter than it already had as I drove across town to his place.

But when he opened the door, every sensation doubled.

Everything about Reese’s presence was large — his stature, his muscles, his energy. His hair was swept back in a loose, knotted-like bun, a few strands falling behind his ears, and he was dressed like he’d just gotten home from school — khaki pants, hunter green button-up, the sleeves bunched at his elbows. He smiled, stepping aside to let me through the door, but all I could do was stare at the space with my feet glued to his porch.

He’s not my wolf.

I tried to soothe my racing heart, tried to assure my labored lungs that there was nothing to be afraid of. But how could I be sure? I wanted to trust Reese, to trust anyone, but the truth was nothing had been earned yet.

And I’d learned my lesson about giving trust to someone just because of the position they held.

Reese cleared his throat. “It’s safe, I promise. Cleared out the boogie men right before you got here.”

I sighed at that, shaking my head at myself as I scooted past Reese and into his foyer. He shut only the glass door behind us, leaving the big door open so the evening sun could stream through the living room. I adjusted my messenger bag on my shoulder, offering him a timid smile.

“Sorry,” I said. “I get a little nervous in new environments.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t necessarily a lie, either.

“Hey, no need to apologize. I think it’s smart of you to be wary of your surroundings. But, hopefully, I can make you feel comfortable the more we work together.” He slid his hands in his pockets. “Would you like something to drink before we get started?”

“Water would be nice.” My throat was still dry, hands clammy.

“You got it. I’ll meet you in there,” he said, pointing to the piano room. Then, he turned, leaving me alone in the foyer.

I took my time making my way into the room where his piano was, surveying the paintings on his walls and the lack of any personal photos. There was only one that I’d noticed, and I’d seen it two nights before during our first lesson — a photo of an older couple and a beautiful young lady that sat perched on top of his piano. Judging by the man’s strong jaw, by the smile of the woman to his left, and by the eyes of the young girl that stood in front of them, I could only guess that it was his family.

My aunt’s words from the night before had me staring at that photo a little longer this time.

I wondered what happened to them. I wondered if he’d ever tell me. The urge to search online to find out hit me again, but I subdued it, reminding myself that Reese Walker was a human just like the rest of us. I wouldn’t want anyone digging up information on my father when I could be the one to tell them myself.

It was unnerving, how much of our past could be exposed by a quick Google search.

I sat my messenger bag on the piano bench, trailing one finger along the wood before I crossed the room to the set of bookshelves by the window. They were small, only about twenty books or so filling them, and I eyed the spines with my hands folded behind me.

Agatha Christie.

Edgar Allen Poe.

Lee Child.

John Grisham.

Stephen King.

It was like a gathering of mystery and thriller, of horror and suspense. The bookshelves in my room in Atlanta were much different — brighter, lined with romance and poetry and fantasy. Of course, I hadn’t been able to read a single book since I left Bramlock. I tried, but every time I opened a story and started reading, I found myself rolling my eyes.

How could romance be real?

How could it be that someone could care about you enough to put you ahead of everything else in their life? How could it be that someone could touch you, kiss you, love you if you were like me — damaged, used.

Fucked up.

I once believed I’d find my prince, my one and only soulmate who would make all the pieces of my life fall perfectly in place. Now, the only love I believed in was the love I felt for the piano.

And even that relationship was strained now.

“Do you like to read?” Reese asked, his voice startling me a bit as he handed me a full glass of water.

I took a tentative sip, embarrassed by the way I jumped when he spoke. “I used to.”

“Used to?” He cocked a brow. “I’ve never heard of someone falling out of love with reading.”

I shrugged. “Well, let’s just say I outgrew it.”

Reese was quiet a moment, and my eyes stayed on the books as his assessed me.

“What did you used to read?”

“Romance, mostly. Some fantasy. Poetry.”

He nodded. Then, he reached forward for one of the books on the top shelf — one with a large mouth on it, a broken-toothed smile.

“Read this,” he said, offering it to me.

I took the book from his hand, one brow lifting as I read the title. “Fight Club? As in, the movie with Brad Pitt?”

Reese scoffed. “Come on, now. As a fellow bookworm, I know you don’t believe the movie is ever as good as the book. Have you seen the movie?”