Page 73 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

I turn toward the kitchen and see him setting a cup down in the sink.

“Yeah, I’m fine. What are you up to?”

He’s wearing a dark button-down shirt, which he has tucked into a pair of jeans. His hair is styled back in a wave.

“Heading to dinner with a friend.”

Like a date? I almost ask. I also almost tell him that Mom is coming to visit. “Enjoy,” I say instead.

“Vovo left dinner warming in the oven.” My dad shakes his head as a smile plays on his lips. “She also told me to tell you she’s reading about pirates tonight so please don’t bother her unless the house is burning down.”

I laugh. “Okay.”

My father grabs my shoulder as he passes, squeezing it tight. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Penny’s here.”

His face lights up. “Tell her I said hi.”

Then he heads for the door and disappears for the night. A dull ache forms in my chest as I watch him walk away, but rather than stew over something I can’t change, I rush toward the woman who almost makes me forget about all the hurt I’ve seen love cause.

Even from the hallway, I can feel the heat from the fire radiating inside the library, and the sound of wood crackling. At the hint of the nostalgic scent, tension releases from my body.

But nothing settles me quite as much as the sight of Penny curled up on the small sofa in front of the fire, a book in hand, a gentle smile on her lips. Her hair glows redder than usual, illuminated by the light of the fire, and her cheeks flush my favorite shade of crimson.

“Good book?” I murmur, not wanting to scare her.

Penny’s eyes follow to the end of whatever she’s reading before she looks at me, placing her hand gently between the pages.

“Ah, not a page creaser, then?” I say. “Noted.”

“Never.” She looks serious. “You don’t ruin beautiful books. They’re our friends.”

Fuck, she’s adorable.

Not even sixty seconds ago I was on the verge of spiraling. And, if she wasn’t here, I’d probably have spent the whole night stewing on the past. Reliving things I have no business reliving.

But I’m laughing, walking toward her, itching to touch her.

“Did you see my father has a first edition of The Great Gatsby?”

Penny’s jaw drops. “No freaking way.”

I hold out a hand to help her up. When she sets her soft palm in mine, warmth floods my veins.

I pull her out of the couch, wrapping an arm around her as I guide her to the shelf that houses my father’s most prized possessions.

“Can I touch it?” she whispers.

We both study the books in front of us and I love that this passion is something we get to share with each other.

I’ll never compute how she almost married someone who didn’t understand her reverence for the written word; it makes me crazy to imagine her with someone who could ever make her feel like her interest in love stories is foolish.

For hundreds of years, scholars have studied what it means to fall in love. Poets have tried to capture its essence, authors have attempted to evoke its feeling. To chalk it up to nothing but a silly hobby is just ridiculous.

I pick up the ornate book and pass it to her, captivated by the way she handles it with such care.

“It’s beautiful.” Penny sighs as she stares at it in wonder.