“Oh, good.”
This time, she followed me, and thank God, because I would have definitely been caught drooling over her ass the second time around.
Xanthe placed her plate on the table and dug something out of her front pocket before taking her seat across from me. Fascinated, I watched as she pulled back her wealth of hair and fashioned a bun on top of her head with the curls flying everywhere.
“So, on the plane, you let me talk your ear off, Xanthe. It’s time for you to give over some info.”
“Sure,” she replied before shoving a large forkful of food in her mouth.
“So…”
She chewed slowly, and I got the feeling she was doing it on purpose. I narrowed my eyes at her, and she smirked.
What a rascal!
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Well, I told you all about my family. What’s up with yours? You mentioned your dad and a great-aunt.”
She nodded. “I also have some cousins in England, aunts and uncles, and my grandparents on my father’s side. They’re nice people.”
“I’m sure they are.”
She sighed and poked at the vegetation on her plate. “My mother and grandmother were killed by a drunk driver when I was twelve, which was why I didn’t mention them before. I didn’t want to bring us down on the flight.”
“Oh.” Yeah, I could understand that. It wasn’t necessarily information you just handed to a virtual stranger. No matter that it didn’t really feel like it, we were, in fact, strangers.
“Both my parents were archaeologists—well, my father still is. He likes digging up dead people and studying ancient civilizations. He teaches at Oxford when he’s not at a site.”
“That sounds interesting.”
She nodded. “I think so. My Great-Aunt Ellen’s an awesome old lady.”
Xanthe was an enigma. It wasn’t that she was unwilling to share herself. What I had first perceived as a woman who didn’t wish to reveal much was simply cautious and observant.
“Do you still plan on working in the bookstore?” I asked. “Since you’re now publishing with Dreamstone, I mean.”
“Of course. Aunt Ellen needs me.”
“Who’s helping her while you’re here?”
“Rex and Jaime.”
I nodded and took a few more bites of food, wanting to think through my next line of questioning.
“What’s the name of the bookstore?”
Xanthe hesitated, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. It was a little maddening to think she didn’t want me to know. We lived in the same city, and if we really hit it off here, like I was hoping we would, then we’d be seeing each other back home.
Isn’t she thinking along those same lines?
“Flight of Fancy,” she replied quietly.
I hadn’t heard of it, and I told her so.
“It’s small. We sell new and used books and also trade when people want to exchange.”
“What sort of books do you write?”
The most endearing shade of red infused her cheeks, and she sipped on her water before answering. “Um…paranormal romance.”
“Oh. Like Elaine H. Ford?”
Her face went, if it were possible, even redder. “Yeah.”
“Will you tell me what it is, so I can read it?”
She laughed. “I thought it wasn’t really your thing.”
“It’s not, but I’d give your stuff a go.”
Xanthe grew quiet.
“What is it?” I asked.
She shrugged. “If you think Elaine is nuts because of what she writes, what makes you so sure I’m any different?”
Stunned, I stared at her. I was disappointed in myself because she had a point. I’d already knocked someone, whom she considered a friend, for writing about disturbing material. It was my fault that Xanthe wasn’t willing to put more of herself out there for me.
“I met a friend of hers today,” I mentioned quietly.
Startled, her eyes clashed with mine. “Yeah? Who?”
“Her PA, Mandy Arthur.”
Xanthe relaxed and nodded. “Mandy’s good people.”
“You know her?”
“Sure. She’s well-known in the indie world. She writes brutally honest reviews, too. Bit of a book junkie.”
“She asked me if I was gay.”
Xanthe’s laughter was awesome. Infectious, too. She looked so carefree and sweet when she laughed, and the sound was just incredible, deep and husky.
“Why would she have asked you that?” she mused, wiping happy moisture from her eyes.
I shrugged. “She busted me smiling while I was texting you. She asked if you were my girlfriend, and when I said no, she wanted to know why I was smiling like I was.”
“Why were you?”
“Smiling like I was?”
“Yeah.”
“I told her I was talking to a person who was of interest to me.”
Xanthe sobered instantly. “Really?”
I nodded. “I find you very interesting.”
This time, her flush was a soft pink, and her smile was certainly shy. “I think you’re pretty interesting yourself.”
Heat flooded through me, making me pleasantly tingle in places that weren’t appropriate in a restaurant. Not for the first time, I openly stared at her.
Xanthe was like no woman I’d ever met before. Her unique beauty was slowly blooming before my eyes. I still couldn’t decide if I liked her better with or without glasses—both were equally appealing. I liked her nose. It was small and straight. Her eyebrows cleanly arched over large eyes that were a little deep-set. And that black freckle…I might be falling in love with it.
The second course was served, and Xanthe’s eyes lit up like fireworks at the sight of the mountain of meat placed between us.
“What do you have planned for tomorrow?” I asked her.
Dragging a particularly juicy chunk of beef onto her plate, she replied, “We’re finalizing some details about the cover of my book.”
“Well, if it’s anything like the one I had to shoot today, you’re going to have a very grumpy-looking person on it. Apparently, I have a hidden talent for looking irritated.”
There went that laughter again, and it just filled me up unlike anything else ever had. It was like a warm, cinnamon-scented breeze moving into all the corners inside me.
“I have the afternoon free,” she said in an offhanded sort of way, like if I didn’t ask her to do anything with me, she’d be cool with it.
“I was thinking I owe you a coffee.”
“That you do. That was heartbreaking, Ollie. I had this magnificent triple-shot mocha latte, and you robbed me of it. I’d only had the teeniest taste of it, and you just knocked it out of my hand, as though I hadn’t just spent five dollars on a cup of hot liquid goodness.”
I blinked at her. I couldn’t even think of a rejoinder to that. No wonder she’s a writer.
She’d just made me feel like the lowest bastard in the world for taking away her simple joy of coffee.
“I…” I said. And nothing else.
She busted out laughing, enchanting me all over again. “You’ve already made up for the coffee,” she told me.