Page 30 of Masquerade Mistake
“I just think the best should go last, is all,” he says, his mouth curving into a crooked smirk. I nudge him in protest, and he laughs out loud. “Okay, honestly it’s because I had no idea what to get you, and I need a clue from whatever book you chose for me to see if I was on the right track.”
“You were supposed to choose a book that you wanted me to read,” I remind him.
“Hello, have we met?” he asks, lifting our hands so he can kiss my knuckles. I shiver as his lips touch my fingers. “Ethan Chance, non-reader. But something tells me you’re going to turn me into a bookworm. Now show your cards, Claire.”
I hold my breath as I hand the package over. A million thoughts are going through my mind as he opens the bag, including the kind of message he’ll get once he realizes what it’s about. It occurs to me that there are more meanings he can draw from this book than figuring out he has a son. He could think I want his baby now, for one.
Oh God. I messed up.
“Interesting choice,” he says, looking at the cover. There’s a couple on the beach walking hand-in-hand, and on the sand next to them is a teddy bear, symbolizing the secret child. Forget the secret message—looking at it now, it seems like the cheesiest, lamest book I could have picked.
He flips the book over and reads it, holding his phone flashlight up so he can see the words. When he’s done, he turns off the flashlight and looks at me. I’m holding my breath so he can’t tell how nervous I am.
“Of all the books I would have chosen, I’m not sure I would have picked a romance,” he says, laughing.
“I figure it’s a good way to learn about what I do,” I say, then my eyes widen as I realize the implication regarding babies. “I mean, the work I do with romance authors. It’s a crazy popular market, and romance readers are devouring books like these, along with the swag that gets sold with them. It’s allowed me to have my own business all this time, and I’m so grateful for that. But I also love reading romance. So I thought I’d start you off with something light like a…” I take the book and flip through it for a second, then hand it back to him. “Yeah, I thought I’d start you off with a sweet romance before I get you into something a bit more, uh, naughty.”
“So, sweet romance means…” He tilts his head, pausing.
“No sex,” I finish for him. “At least, not anything that’s described.”
He hands the book back to me. “I want the naughty one.”
I laugh, then push it back in his lap.
“Sorry, Sparky. You have to start with the fade-to-black romance books, just like the rest of us. Now, what did you get me?”
He hands me his bag, and I open it up. When I pull it out, I squeal. It’s the latest Amanda Loring book in her Throne of Roses series.
“I take it I did good,” he says, rubbing his ears with exaggeration.
“You mean, the store clerk did good,” I laugh. But I’m not mad about this at all. “This just came out last week, and I haven’t had a chance to get it yet.” I close the book, then turn to the back cover, reading the synopsis I practically know by heart. Then I open the book again. “It’s been a nice date, Ethan. We should probably call it a night.”
He snatches the book from my hands as I laugh, and he holds it out of my reach.
“Hey, that’s mine,” I squeal.
He peers at the bare-chested man gracing the cover, then back at me. “I don’t know, maybe I should return it. If your novels have guys like that on it, I don’t stand a chance.”
I tilt my head, giving him a once over. “I think it’s a draw,” I say. He smiles at me, then takes the book and places it next to the one I got him.
“Good answer,” he murmurs.
My breath catches as he gets closer. Even though we’re past our first kiss—seven years, if we’re being technical—my nerves mix with excitement, leaving my body tingling in anticipation. He presses his mouth to mine, and I swear there isn’t a romance novel in the world that can make me feel this way. Everything disappears, and it’s just us. One hand in my hair, the other holding me up as he leans into me. His mouth equal parts hard and soft, demanding and questioning. He moves to caress my cheek and I make a small sound in the back of my throat, tilting my head to capture more of him. He’s warm and comforting, and I lose myself a little more with each second we’re connected. I could write a novel about this, just the kiss and nothing else. It’s almost surprising when he pulls back and I open my eyes. My soul returns to my body, and I can’t believe I’ve lived this many years without him as my air.
“I want to know everything about you,” he says, his hand still on my cheek as he searches my eyes. “Your favorite color, what you dream about at night, what you ate for breakfast. Leave nothing out.”
I tell him everything that isn’t Finn. I tell him about living with my mother and how I raised myself. I share my hopes of traveling the world one day and seeing places I’ve only dreamed about. I tell him about my friendship with Maren, how I join marches to fight inequality regarding race, gender, or orientation, and how I sometimes think I could write a book instead of just reading them. And my favorite color is blue.
He tells me how he barely graduated, but got into college on a football scholarship, which explains why he’s so ripped. He surfs almost every morning, and most evenings are at Hillside. In between that he’s either playing basketball with friends, running, or playing video games. Or all three. I note that he says nothing about his father, feeling a twinge of guilt that I already know.
“Wow, you’re pretty active,” I say. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
“Not really,” he says. “I guess when you do it for fun, it’s not tiring at all. But what about you? I know you have your book craft business, but what do you do for fun? Besides picnics at the park.”
I give a weak laugh, trying to buy myself time. What do I do for fun? Rush in the morning to get Finn ready for school. Clean the house while he’s away. Work my ass off to make sure we can eat. Sign a million permission slips. Volunteer for craft days in his classroom. Take him to the doctors, the dentist, playdates, birthday parties, and occasionally to see his grandma because I can’t seem to cut her out of my life.
“Stuff,” I say.