Brady smiles his imperfect smile at that sentence, and my heart skips at the sight of it.
“I like that term: fiction imaginations. So we’d never meet in fiction, would we?”
I ponder this. “Sadly, I’d say not.”
“No, I disagree. I’d say yes.”
I laugh as another spring wind sweeps across us, and his delicious scent carries toward me.
“How can you say yes? I’d be in England dancing at a ball, and you’d be fighting some alien invasion.”
“I think fate would lead us to the same spot,” Brady says. “I think I could be convinced to time travel if I knew it was to meet you.”
Happiness colors my cheeks from the compliment. “So you’d come to a ball in 1811 to meet me?”
“I would.”
“Then I’ll make a note to leave my dance card open for the supper dance,” I say. “That’s how men courted, you know. You met at balls and signed up for dances with the women you were interested in.”
“Could I sign up for all your dances?” he asks.
Besotted, besotted, besotted.
“That would be quite scandalous.”
“Now, I’m totally down for it.”
I glance over at him, and his crooked smile practically make me trip over my own feet, he’s so gorgeously swoony.
“Luckily, I shall save you from scandal, because we’re here,” I say, stopping in front of The Torn Page.
Brady moves ahead to open the door for me. “After you.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling.
He steps behind me, and as soon as we enter, the scent of old books drifts over me like a comfortable blanket.
“Do you smell it?” I ask, taking a deep breath and breathing it in. “Oh, I love the scent of old books.”
I scan the tables stacked with books, the books crammed into bookcases against the wall and on shelves, and the narrow staircase that leads to the second floor, where the last-chance books are thrown into bins that can take hours of sorting.
“I do, and I smell coffee,” Brady says. “Books and coffee—now that’s a powerful scent trigger, isn’t it?”
“Make it tea, and I’d agree with you,” I say.
Brady grins. “Of course, any good Regency woman in England probably fancies a cup of tea, am I right?”
“You are. And I don’t like coffee.”
“I could drink coffee all day. Two cups in the morning, one I grab before getting to the ballpark, and I’ll drink iced decaf coffee in the evening.”
“So, this would be your night coffee?”
“Yes. Would you like a cup of tea?”
I nod. “Thank you. I would love one.”
We cross over to the café side of the shop, where people are sitting in oversized chairs and at tables enjoying coffee and dessert. Brady pauses at the display case, which is filled with all kinds of treats, from cookies the size of my head to thick cake slices.
“Do you want anything?” he asks.
“I’m so full; I don’t think I could eat anything else,” I say. But then I spy a massive slice of coconut layer cake, spongy yellow with coconut buttercream flecked with pieces of coconut. “Although that coconut cake looks delicious.”
“You can have it,” Brady says. “We can share if you like.”
“Perfect.”
We move over to place our order, and because this isn’t my fancy coffee shop that can make rose tea lattes, I settle for a green tea. Brady gets a decaf vanilla latte, and then we look for a place to sit. Brady finds a spot near the back, in a corner, and we sink into identical wingback chairs.
I park my tea on the table between the chairs, and Brady places the cake and two forks in the middle.
“Ladies first,” he insists.
I pick up my fork. “All right. Now, I have to take it off the back portion here, because I want extra frosting.”
I break off a piece that appears to be a ratio of seventy percent icing to thirty percent cake and pop it into my mouth. The second I taste that coconutty goodness, I nearly groan in pleasure. The bite of moist vanilla cake with decadent coconut buttercream frosting is so good.
“It’s divine,” I say, putting my fork down.
“Okay, let’s see,” Brady says, picking up his fork and taking a piece of the front end. “I prefer an equal amount of cake and frosting.”
“Good, so I can eat this frosting off the back, and you won’t care?” I tease, taking another piece there.
“Not at all,” Brady says before popping the piece of cake into his mouth. I watch as his eyebrows raise.
“It’s so good,” I exclaim, eating another bite.
“Too good. That’s dangerous,” Brady says, putting his fork down and picking up his coffee. “I could eat that for breakfast.”
I pause. “Have you ever done that?”
Brady lifts an eyebrow. “Are you going to go public with that info if I share it?”
“The public cares about your eating habits?”
He grins. “I’m sure if I pitch a piss-poor game on Thursday, they’ll trace it back to me eating cake for breakfast instead of a diet plan scripted for an athlete.”
I furrow my brow. Brady is grinning, but I know this is probably true.
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“I can eat a piece of chocolate cake for breakfast with a latte and be perfectly happy.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Except I have cake and tea. I love that for a Sunday morning breakfast.”
“Sunday sounds like a good day for it,” Brady says, picking up his fork again.
We each take a few more bites before putting our forks down. Brady glances at me from across the table.
“We should use the bookstore to learn more about each other,” he says.
Tick! He wants to explore this old bookstore on a date. The fluttering in my stomach returns with his idea.
“Oh, I’d love to. Shall we explore?” I ask, ready to grab my tea and begin wandering.
Brady shakes his head. “How about we do it differently?”
Now, I’m super intrigued. “Like how?” I ask.
“I’m going to pick out four books that tell you something about me in some way,” Brady says. “And you’ll do the same.”
Oh, I love this idea. It shows Brady’s creativity and sense of fun.
I smile. “You go first.”
Brady grins and rises from the table. “I’ll be back.”
I watch as he moves across the bookstore, disappearing behind one of the aisles. I let a big sigh escape my lips as he does. How can a man have so many layers? Intriguing is the word that my mind keeps connecting with him.
Shortly, he reappears with a stack of books. My heart skips a beat as I see him approach.
“I can’t wait to see what you have,” I say eagerly.
Brady sinks back down in his chair. “I don’t know. You might learn some things that scare you off.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ll let you re-evaluate that in a moment,” he says, flashing me a smile. “Okay, first up.”
Brady picks up the top book on his stack and turns it toward me. “Macaws.”
I stare at the book about macaw birds, and my eyebrows raise in surprise. “A bird book.”