Only You Read online

  The mention of children’s literacy groups jars the memory of the books given out to each child who visits Santa. My first day here, Meredith had seemed surprised I didn’t know where the books came from, and now I understand her reaction.

  As if reading my mind—something Bridget does often—she says, “Ivy told me each child gets a book when they visit Santa. You’re responsible for that?”

  “I’m good friends with the owner of Pied Piper’s Books, and I get the books from her shop. Each week is a different book, a new release. I work with Piper to choose authors who are just starting out or who are marginalized in some way. We also donate a box of books each week to the Bookworm program, which makes sure kids from underprivileged families get books.”

  I think I might swoon.

  Bridget’s wide eyes dart from Hugh to me and back again. “I think it’s some sort of serendipity the two of you met.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Hugh says, tilting his head to look at me with a small smile I can’t quite read. “But I’m curious as to your reasons for thinking so.”

  “Ivy is a big book lover,” Bridget says. “Pied Piper’s is basically her second home. At least twice a year, she buys a bunch of books from there and donates them to Bookworm.” She pauses for breath, and before I can jump in, she adds, “For as long as I’ve known her, she’s talked about someday owning a bookstore and being able to have children’s programs.”

  Hugh angles his body toward me so he can meet my eyes full on. “Very interesting,” he says slowly. “Why haven’t you followed this dream of yours?”

  I’m tempted to start shoveling food into my mouth so I don’t have to answer. Bridget means well, but I hate talking about this. Every time I do, it reminds me I’ve had the same job for six years and I’m no closer to following my dreams now than I was the day I started at Quest. “It’s a fantasy,” I say with a casual shrug. “I’ve got a good career and I’m good at my job. Good pay, good benefits. I like how things are for me right now. Life is…”

  “Good?” Hugh guesses, and Bridget hides a snicker with a delicate cough. “That’s a lot of good.”

  “It is,” I say, suddenly defensive. I’m beginning to think I should have stayed home and slept off my hangover. “Besides, I spend a lot of time at the bookstore and I know how hard Piper works. She’s my age and she’s managed to build this incredible business all on her own. Indies are struggling and shutting down all across the country, and I wouldn’t want to be competition for her.”

  He bobs his head and returns his attention to his lunch. “That’s noble of you.” If anyone else said that, I’d assume there was at least a hint of sarcasm behind the words, yet Hugh seems sincere. “You never know. Things might fall into place for you someday. And in the meantime, if you’d like to work with books in some capacity, we could team up. You can help me with the book ordering or deliveries to Bookworm. I usually have all the season’s books chosen ahead of time, but I’m behind this year.”

  “Yeah, I could do that.” I have no idea when. I’m working almost twelve hours a day and he must have a busy schedule too. We’ll figure it out, I guess. Or not. Maybe he’s just being nice.

  “I have tomorrow off,” he says. He checks his watch and scrunches up his face before wolfing down a few more bites of food. “We could meet up, go over some brochures. If you give me your number, I’ll text you later and we can hash out the details.” He fishes his phone from his back pocket as he speaks, unlocking it and handing it to me. Too stunned to say anything, I enter my name and number in his contacts.

  When I hand back the phone, Hugh offers us an apologetic smile. “Hate to eat and run, ladies, but Santa duty calls. Lunch is on me. Make sure to order dessert.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t—” I start to say, but he stands and lays a hand on my shoulder.

  His moss-colored eyes are warm when they meet mine, the corners crinkling when his lips inch up in a heart-stopping smile. “I insist. Please.” To Bridget, he says, “It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon. Ivy, I’ll talk to you later and hopefully see you tomorrow.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads off to where our server is standing at a computer printing out a bill. He says something to her and slips a few bills into her hand, eliciting a grin and a nod from her.

  “Ohh boy.”

  My eyes snap to Bridget. “What?”

  Her gaze trails after Hugh as he leaves. “Those eyes. That smile. The accent.” She blows out a long breath, and I half expect her to fan herself.

  “Not sure David would appreciate you lusting after Santa,” I say.

  Bridget rolls her eyes, following it with a short laugh. “David has absolutely nothing to worry about, and we all know it. You on the other hand…” She shakes her head and skewers me with a steady gaze. “You claim you don’t have a type, but you do and he’s it. You’ll deny it, say you can’t be with him because he’s your boss, or he’s a bit older than us, or you’re not interested in dating. But just like I know he’s your type, I also know what I saw when he looked at you: he likes you.” She plants her elbows on the table and rubs her hands together. “This should be fun.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to that, but I do know she’s enjoying this way too much. Because she’s right: Hugh is my type, and I’d be lying if I said he doesn’t make me feel fluttery in various parts of my body.

  I don’t want to get my hopes up, though. Bridget said she could tell Hugh likes me, but he’s an open, friendly guy. I didn’t sense that he treated me any differently than he did her, or any of the girls who work with me. For all I know, he could be a player whose aim is to bag as many elves as possible.

  “I know this is rich coming from me, but stop overthinking,” Bridget says, reaching across the table to tap the back of my hand. “Be open and see what happens.” She clears her throat. “Now. Very important question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Apple crisp with French vanilla ice cream or blueberry cheesecake?”

  I shake my head, laughing under my breath. After all these years of friendship, I know this isn’t the end of the Hugh discussion. Not by a long shot. I’m used to abrupt changes in conversation, though, and I’m guilty of it often enough myself. I guess right now dessert takes precedent. “Both. Duh.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

  My sigh sounds more like a growl. “For the fifth time, Celia, I’m not trying to get rid of you. Stay, go, do whatever you want. I just thought it’d be nice for you to do something fun since you’ve been working the last six days.” I swallow the itty bitty bubble of guilt rising up my throat. I am, in fact, hoping to get rid of her. Hugh is set to arrive within the next half hour. I can only imagine the questions and snide comments I’d be forced to deal with if Celia were still here.

  “Something’s up,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “Is Bridget coming over? Didn’t you just spend the day with her yesterday?”

  “No, Bridget isn’t coming over. And what does it matter if she was or if I did just spend yesterday with her? She’s my best friend. I used to spend nearly every day with her before…”

  “Before what?” Celia snaps. “Before I moved in and spoiled your life?”

  She’s in fine form today. Until now, it seemed playing the Grooge at Santa’s Village had begun to mellow her, as if the costume and character allowed her to get out all her aggression during the day. I wouldn’t exactly say I’d been experiencing a kinder, gentler version of Celia, but there’s definitely been less snark and demands, and she’s left my stuff alone all week. Today, though, she’s been a total sourpuss from the moment she rolled out of bed.

  “I was going to say before Bridget and David got together. Bridge spends a lot of her free time with him now,” I say. Celia starts to speak, and I can almost hear the nasty remark rising in her throat, so I cut her off. “Naturally. They’re in a relationship. People tend to spend a lot of time with the person they
’re in a committed relationship with. And besides, it’s not like we don’t still see each other plenty.” I stop and shake my head. Why am I defending my friendship with Bridget yet again? I don’t have time for Celia’s petty jealousy.

  “Is a guy coming over?” Celia asks. I open my mouth to deny it, but the words won’t come. Her eyes light with triumph. “A guy is coming over! Oh this is too good. Why didn’t you just say so? Someone’s getting laid.” She says the last in a singsong voice that makes me cringe.

  “It’s not like that. There is a guy coming over, but it’s for work.”

  “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” She looks around for her purse, finding it where she dropped it last night beside one of the living room chairs. “I guess I’ll clear out. A new boutique opened downtown yesterday and Peri mentioned checking it out today. I’ll see if she wants company.”

  “It’s great you’re making friends at work, Ce.” I head for the kitchen, wondering absentmindedly if I should start a pot of coffee.

  A stomping sound behind me draws my attention. Celia has pulled her boots on and is glaring at me. “I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I am capable of making friends, Ivy.”

  Holy shit, I can’t say anything right today. I close my eyes and rub my temples in an attempt to stave off the stress headache that’s building. I never used to get tension headaches before Celia moved in.

  She stuffs her arms into her coat and snatches her purse up again. Without a word, she spins toward the door and flings it open. She lets out a little cry of surprise when she sees Hugh standing on the other side, his fist raised as if to knock.

  “Hello.” The short word is laced with uncertainty as he drops his hand and glances between Celia and me. “I was going to buzz, but someone let me in downstairs.”

  “No worries!” My voice is overly breezy. I hurry forward, gently nudging Celia aside so Hugh can come in. I avoid looking at her for as long as possible. When I do finally meet her gaze, I’m greeted by exactly what I expected: smugness. “Come on in and make yourself comfortable. Celia was just leaving.”

  “Not on my account I hope,” Hugh says.

  “No, no, I have places to go and people to see. You two kids have fun.” She motions for me to join her in the hall, so I shoot Hugh an apologetic look and follow her out. Her eyes dance with barely contained laughter as she asks, “Should I find someplace else to stay tonight?”

  Instead of answering, I roll my eyes and step back inside. “Bye, Celia. Have fun.” I close and lock the door. I should have told her yes, just so I’d have the apartment to myself for a night.

  When I turn around, Hugh has just kicked off his boots and is arranging them neatly beside mine. He picks up a small parcel from the floor and straightens. “I heard her sniping at you and was unsure whether to knock or go hide in the stairwell until she left.”

  “Option B is always a good one where Celia’s concerned.”

  “I’ll remember that.” His eyes twinkle with mirth, thawing some of my irritation and nerves. I look at the parcel in his hands—a notebook with something in a plastic bag balanced on top. “My mum instilled in me the importance of bringing a gift when someone invites you to their home,” he says, pulling a tiny flower pot from the plastic bag. “Since fresh flowers are lacking this time of year and I don’t know if you drink wine or have food allergies, I thought a succulent might be nice. They’re pretty and they don’t require much work. I hope it’s all right.”

  I accept the pot from him and examine the pale purple plant inside. I’ve always been intrigued by the unfurled-artichoke appearance of succulents, but I never got around to buying one. “How incredibly thoughtful,” I tell him. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  His smile is a mixture of relief and pleasure. I usher him further into the apartment, motioning for him to have a seat while I find a spot on my bookcase for the plant. I place it where it’ll be easy to see, then turn back to find Hugh occupying one corner of my couch. My small couch suddenly looks tiny with this big beautiful man sitting on it. His gaze sweeps the room, his expression unreadable.

  “This place is nice,” he says finally.

  “But?”

  “Hmm?” His eyes land on mine, brows pulling together slightly. “But nothing.”

  My eyes trail around the same path his did, trying to see the familiar space through his perspective. Three-seater couch flanked by two comfy chairs; sturdy wooden coffee table and matching end tables on either side of the couch; entertainment unit with my TV and various DVDs; and my chock-full bookcase, which takes up almost an entire wall.

  Hugh clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “I don’t know you well enough yet to know your style or tastes. I suppose I was expecting something a bit…different.” I raise my eyebrows in question, so he continues. “The books make sense. They fit with my mental picture of you. I thought maybe you’d have some art on the walls. More homey touches. It’s not a judgment at all,” he rushes to say when I simply watch him without speaking. “Just an observation.”

  I’m not entirely sure how to respond, so instead I ask, “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

  He looks stunned by the abrupt change of topic, but recovers quickly. “Coffee would be nice, thanks.”

  The familiar routine of measuring grounds and water is comforting. When Hugh texted last night and suggested coming here today, I agreed without much thought. Then I spent all morning feeling fluttery and anxious, wondering if I should have suggested we meet in a public place. It’s not that I’m nervous about being alone with him, but I’m uncertain about my own feelings toward him.

  After putting milk, sugar, and two mugs on a tray, I remember the package of fancy cookies I bought recently and hid behind the crackers Celia doesn’t like. I arrange a few on a plate, then stick a few more on for good measure. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to play hostess. The only person who visits is Bridget, and she always helps herself to stuff when she’s here. The coffee finishes percolating, so I add the pot to the tray, instantly regretting my decision not to make two trips as I heft the tray off the counter and balance it in both hands.

  I’m halfway to the living room, inching along at a snail’s pace when Hugh notices me. He jumps off the couch and offers me a quick smile as he takes the tray with ease and sets it on the coffee table. Several brochures are spread out on the table; he must have been leafing through one and discarded it when he hopped up to help me.

  He waits until I sit on the opposite end of the couch before returning to his seat. Perching on the edge of the cushion, he begins pouring coffee into the mugs. I watch in wonder as he adds a heaping spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk to one, stirs it, and hands it to me.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you before,” he says. “As I said, it wasn’t a judgment so much as an observation. It truly is a lovely place and you seem comfortable here.” His brows draw together again. “Have I done something wrong?”

  I realize he means the coffee, so I shake my head quickly. “How did you know this is how I take my coffee?”

  “You had two cups with lunch yesterday,” he says. He picks up his own cup without adding milk or sugar—blech—and takes a sip. “Mmm, good and strong, just how I like it.”

  “Bridget never lets me make coffee,” I tell him. “Her dad used to say I made it strong enough to put hair on your chest.”

  Hugh chuckles, the rich, warm sound wrapping around me and putting me at ease. “I’ve already got that covered, so no worries.” He rubs a hand on his chest over his blue pullover.

  Goodbye ease. Now I’m thinking about Hugh’s chest. Hugh’s hairy chest? I’ve never been attracted to hairy chests before, but it would suit Hugh. He’s got that sexy, rugged thing going on. Oh god, why am I thinking about Hugh’s bare chest?

  “Anyway,” I say a little too forcefully. “You didn’t offend me about the apartment. I’d never really thought about it before, to be honest. To an outsider, it probably looks like I j
ust moved in, even though I’ve been here six years.” I scan the room again; the bookcase is the only personal thing in this room, with all my books, some framed photos, and now my beautiful succulent. I’ve bought a few art prints over the years and always intended to get them framed, but haven’t got around to it.

  “The minimalist look works,” Hugh says.

  I laugh to myself. “It wasn’t intentional. My parents died when I was young, and my aunt and uncle took me in. My aunt is the one you could legitimately call a minimalist. She practically considers clutter a mortal sin.”

  He chuckles at that. “She’d have hated my mum’s house, then. It was chock-full of bits and bobs and mismatched furniture, with artwork and framed photographs covering every square inch of the walls.” I smile, thinking how nice that sounds. At the same moment I realize he spoke of his mother in the past tense, he ducks his head so our eyes meet. “I’m sorry about your parents. I lost my mum ten years ago, and my dad passed about five years ago.”

  Our gazes hold, unblinking, for several long beats. Until two years ago when Bridget’s dad died, I’d never had a friend who’d lost a parent. People have always been sympathetic, but none of them truly know what it’s like unless they’ve lived through it. People saying they’re sorry usually make me uncomfortable because I don’t know what to say in return. I often feel like I need to make it okay for the other person since I know they’re as clueless as I am when it comes to giving and receiving condolences. But Hugh gets it. I can see it in his eyes, that unique kind of pain, the grief that looms over you like a shadow. “I’m sorry for your loss too.” Without thinking, I reach out. He meets me part way, closing his large hand around mine.

  We hold hands for a minute, and then he takes a deep breath and gently releases me. “Some of the best stories have orphans as their heroes. Have you ever noticed that? Harry Potter. Oliver Twist. Anne Shirley.”