Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Poor Berry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you.”
She chuckles like she thinks I’m only teasing. But I’m not. I almost want to push it, but once we’re on the bike and her thighs are bracketing mine, I forget what we were talking about. The entirety of my concentration goes to Brenna and keeping her safe. Maybe we should use a car.
An impatient pat to my abdomen has me snapping out of it, and I start the bike. For a while, I just drive, soak in the sun, air, and the feel of my girl pressed up against my back. Brenna wraps herself around me like I’m her favorite pillow. I’m cool with that.
Eventually, I head towards downtown and find a place to park.
“So,” she says, pulling off her helmet in a move worthy of Charlie’s Angels. “Where are you taking me?”
I incline my head to the corner building behind me. “The bookstore.”
Her eyes light. “You’re taking me book shopping?”
“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but yeah, I thought you’d like it.”
“I thought you’d assume I’d want to shop for shoes.” She says it lightly, but there’s a glint in her eyes that has me grinning wide.
“Babe, I might be ignorant when it comes to relationships, but I’m not a total fool. That statement is bait.”
Brenna laughs and shakes her head. “It so was. Good evasion. Let’s go look at books.”
The place is massive and smells of knowledge and sunlight. Brenna and I stroll along together and split up when we find something that interests us. But we never stray far. I always have her in my periphery, something inside me not wanting to give up the sight of her. It’s a strange thing. Brenna and I have been in each other’s orbit for over ten years. I know her face as well as my own—better; I look at her face more than mine. But being with her like this makes it all feel new.
She catches my eye and smiles. For the first time in my life, I fully understand those old-timey cartoons where the wolf is struck by love darts and his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest. I’m pretty sure there’s a lovelorn grin on my face, pink hearts dancing around my head. Whatever the case, it’s enough to draw Brenna over to me.
Without a word, I take her hand and lead her onward. There’s a tunnel made entirely of stacked books that crests over us like a wave. No one is around, and I pull her close. Her lips are soft and welcoming. I fall into her kiss the way I’m falling for her: completely, like a man denied sustenance. She tastes like cherry-sweet sin. I lick into her mouth chasing that flavor, my back hitting the wall. Brenna eats at my mouth with the same fervor, her arms winding their way around my neck.
A snicker from the right has us pulling apart to look. A group of teen girls walk by, giving us wide grins. I don’t know if they recognize me or not. I don’t care at the moment, because Brenna is still pressed up against me. I turn my attention back to her, my hand drifting to palm her peachy ass.
She smiles, soft, flushed. “Hey.”
Those pink hearts are probably circling my head again. “Hey.”
Right now would be the perfect time to tell her why I really came all this way. But the words are stuck in my throat. I don’t want to ruin this moment.
Tell her.
With surprising gentleness, Brenna brushes my hair back from my brow. Her amber eyes look into mine.
Fucking hell. Tell. Her.
“Apparently there’s a vinyl section here,” she says in the face of my silence. “Did you know that?”
Shit. Busted.
“Ah, yes? I mean, yes, I did. But I wasn’t planning on going there. Today is for you.”
Brenna’s laugh is husky. “So self-sacrificing.”
I’m about to protest, swear my innocence, but she lifts on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Today is for us. Come on, buttercup, I want to see this collection.”
Yep. I’m a goner.
I grab her hand and all but drag her to my favorite spot in the store. Vinyl records and Brenna. What could be better? She stays with me, browsing LPs, pulling out old favorites for me to look at. Paradise.
I hand her a battered old copy of “Masterpieces by Ellington.”
“Duke Ellington wrote his compositions to highlight his musicians’ individual styles and talents,” I tell her. “I mean, we do that now with Kill John, but for a big band composer back then to say, this isn’t about showing off my skills but to elevate the talents of those around me and take the music to its highest level…” I sigh in appreciation. “He made it an all-encompassing visceral experience, a masterpiece of that perfect moment in time.”