Page 19 of Resisting the Handsome Doctor
"You said you want to get to know me. So, ask me something you actually want to know. Not small talk."
He considers this, still swaying with me even though the song has changed to something faster. People are starting to give us looks, but he doesn't seem to care.
"Alright," he says finally. "If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?"
"Here."
He blinks. "Here? Blackwater Falls?"
"I know it's boring—"
"It's not boring. I'm just surprised."
"Why?"
"Because you're smart and talented and you could probably get a job at any library in any city. I guess I assumed you stayed here because it was easy. Or safe."
"It is safe," I admit. "But that's not why I stay. I stay because... because this place feels like home. Because I know everyone and everyone knows me, even if they don't always remember me. Because Mrs. Silver makes my coffee without me having to order it. Because I can walk to work when it's nice out and I recognize every house I pass. Because the library has these huge windows that look out over the park, and in the fall the trees turn gold and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Owen is staring at me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing. Just... the way you talk about this place. I've never heard anyone describe Blackwater Falls like that."
"How do other people describe it?"
"Small. Boring. The place they couldn't wait to leave." He shakes his head. "But you make it sound magical."
"It is magical. If you pay attention."
"I'm starting to think I haven't been paying attention to a lot of things."
The song ends, transitioning into something even more upbeat. Around us, people are really dancing now, the kind of dancing that requires actual energy and rhythm. Owen and I are still just standing there, swaying slightly, completely out of sync with the music.
"We should probably move," I say. "We're blocking the dance floor."
"Or everyone else could dance around us."
I laugh. "That's not how dance floors work."
"It should be. I'm comfortable right here."
"Owen—"
"Fine, fine." He takes my hand and leads me off the floor, back to our table in the corner. "But for the record, I was having a good time."
"You were stepping on my foot."
"I said I was having a good time. I didn't say I was good at it."
We sit down, and I realize my wine glass is empty. Owen notices too.
"Want another?" he asks.
I should say no. I should keep my head clear, stay in control, not do anything stupid like confess feelings I've been hiding for fifteen years.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
