“More than likely, yeah, they are.” She gave him an odd look that made him laugh. “After they retired, my folks morphed into adrenaline junkies with a cause. If I had to guess, they’re hanging off an ice cap somewhere, documenting glacial melting.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “So long as they don’t plunge to death in the Arctic Ocean, they’ll send me some pictures in the next couple of weeks.”
“Totally badass.”
He concurred.
“What were they like before?” she asked.
He shrugged, remembering a time when his dad channel-surfed on the weekends, while his mom tinkered with embroidery. “Totally, one hundred percent normal.”
“Normal’s a terrible description.”
“Our house had a crockpot. My dad wore loafers, and my mom was one of the last people on earth who still balanced her checkbook once a week.”
Vanka laughed.
“Normal,” he repeated for effect.
“My parents were normal, too,” she said, “but you’d think they were bloody mad.”
“I can only imagine.” With Vanka guiding, they turned down a hall and entered a stairwell. “You want to tell me why?”
She pursed her lips as though thinking about a PhD thesis topic and not her family. “Some other time.”
“Fair enough.” They walked to the third floor and entered an ornate hall that made him think of dining hall scenes from a Harry Potter movie—but even more extravagant. Two rows of chandeliers hung from high-vaulted, golden-curlicued ceilings. One after the other, they lit up a pathway of long, wooden desks and chairs on the floor, and a ceiling of painted clouds that were like skylights from the ethereal heavens.
No doubt, Vanka knew the details and decisions behind the design. She was an encyclopedia to his how-to manual. He didn’t bother with details like color, style, history, et cetera. He only appreciated that Vanka did, particularly as it pertained to maintaining their covers around highbrow assholes whom he’d much rather kill.
But he’d had it all wrong. Memorizing minutia wasn’t what made her so perfect and untouchable. It wasn’t memorization—she appreciated it. Whatever the hell it actually was.
They followed the path down the center of the room. His steps sounded too loud. He could cross a gravel road and not alert a nearby enemy, yet here he couldn’t even dull the roar of his footsteps. They stopped to let a woman pushing a cart of books cross from between the tables. Spiker considered diverting Vanka from the center walkway to where he was certain his shoes wouldn’t sound so conspicuous, but an odd feeling of déjà vu struck, and he laughed loud enough to earn the wrath of Vanka and the lady with the cart.
“Did you ever watch Ghostbusters?” he whispered.
Vanka wasn’t amused and ignored him as they continued straight ahead. Once they were out of earshot of the other woman, he added, “That movie from the ’80s. They filmed it in here.”
“Did they?” she asked, clearly still very unamused.
“Books floated. The librarian screamed.” He searched for signs of recognition. “Slime on the card catalog. You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about?” Her glare was enough of an answer. “I know what we’re going to do next time it’s my turn to pick.”
This time her side-eye glance was less “shut-up-already” and more of an eyelash-veiled assessment of next time. That look didn’t do a damn thing to quell his urge to kiss her.
“That’s fine.” She led them between two long tables, waiting until they’d reached the other side to add, “You can handle trivia, and I’ll cover culture.”
He bet his life she’d enjoy a hockey brawl almost as much as whatever they were doing at the library. “Done, so long as trivia covers sports.”
“I don’t know. Sounds a lot like culture.”
He scoffed.
She walked ahead of him and let her fingers trail along the edge of the wood shelves, then turned to face him. “Maybe you should understand what culture is before going any further.”
“Why?” didn’t seem like the best retort. Asking if there would be a test felt more juvenile than their location called for. “Considering I have no idea what we’re doing except walking in a room that as long as a city block”—he lifted his shoulders—“tell me what I need to know.”
“It’s more like two city blocks.”
“I like that you know that.” He smiled. “Fill me in, princess.”
She rubbed her temple as if second-guessing the choices that had led them to this secluded, whispered banter in the book stacks. “It’s everything that makes up a society.”
“Including sports.”
“Including everything. If it exists at this moment, it’s part of our culture.” She gestured in the direction that they had come. “Those books. The people who are reading them. Who they are. What they believe. Where they came from and where they’ll go to. What they see and like and dream about along the way,” she explained as though the very fabric of her sanity rested in his understanding. “It’s everything that seems unimportant but is the definitive explanation of this point in history.”
Her description made him feel like an insignificant speck in a massive world, though he didn’t believe that had been her goal. “All right.”
“All right.” She inhaled deeply and shut her eyes before letting the breath out. Her head rested against a row of books. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
Spiker didn’t rush to assure her. She needed a moment, and he needed to siphon through what she’d said, why she’d said it, and piece together what she wasn’t saying. Hell, he needed to read between the lions.
To Vanka, culture was nothing like what he would’ve assumed. It wasn’t the advertisements placed in trendy magazines, nor was it trend-setting powers-that-be who signaled haughty, vogue bullshit. Spiker moved next to Vanka and rested against the books. His eyes shut. Their arms touched. He searched for meaning in a word that had brought her to a standstill. A collection of what humanity had to offer. “What did your parents do for a living?”
Surprise spasmed between them, and her face snapped up toward his. Spiker pivoted from the bookshelf, angling his body ninety degrees away from her, their arms serving as the point of a right angle.
“My mum was an anthropologist.” She licked her bottom lip. “My father was a professor of archaeology. They taught me everything that I know.”
Imaginary dots lined up and connected while he stared at her. Spiker wanted to protect. He needed to feel her, tight in his arms, the way she had latched on to him in her living room. That wasn’t what she needed. “They must have been amazing people.”
Hesitatingly, she agreed. “Yes.”
There was still more to say, but he doubted it would happen today. His fingers tangled and locked together with hers in a momentary squeeze. Then he gave them both breathing room.
The woman who stared up at him now was the same woman he’d known as his partner for years. She was the same one who had set his thoughts on fire for days. Nothing had changed about her. Spiker simply saw more than he ever had before—he was the one who had changed.