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“Feel?” Hudson asks, like he doesn’t understand the question.
“Yeah. You know, emotions?”
“Are books supposed to make you feel anything? They’re for information, not emotions. Right?”
My brow jumps up my forehead. “You need to read Hannah Harting’s books if you don’t think books are supposed to make you feel anything,” I say, thinking about her small town, brother’s best friend, second chance romance book that I just finished two nights ago and swooned over nonstop.
Hudson looks at me for a beat, then lowers his gaze back to his phone and starts typing something.
I roll my eyes. I guess he’s had enough of talking about feelings and decided to get back to … whatever it is he’s doing on his phone. I’m about to open my mouth and ask if he wants to get started finding students to talk to, but then he looks back up from his phone with a quirked eyebrow.
“Hannah Harting. You like those kind of books, huh?” There’s a wry gleam in his eyes. I guess he just googled her and saw that her books are heavy on spice.
Liquid heat pools low in my core. That’s not the only place heat pools, because suddenly my cheeks are scorching. I’m glad there are no mirrors around, or else I’d surely see that I’ve transformed into a tomato, which would only make me blush harder.
“Yeah,” I answer, swallowing. “Romance books.”
“Romance,” he says, knowingly. His eyes flit back to his phone screen before piercing me again. “Seems like there’s a lot of romance in her books.”
When I introduced myself to him in class, he couldn’t find more than monosyllabic grunts; but when he wants to tease me about the spicy books I read and make me feel like I’m about to melt into a puddle on the floor, he suddenly has a way with words.
I decide to turn the tables. “So, what about you? You just read sports books then?”
He shrugs. “Sports. Biographies. Some history.”
“No fiction? Ever?”
He shrugs again. “I guess not.”
I make a tut-tut sound with my tongue, shaking my head. “That’s just sad.” I don’t know how I’d get through my week without a good book on my Kindle to jump into whenever I feel like I need a little escape. “What kind of art does make you feel something? Movies? Painting?”
Hudson’s eyes flit to the side like he’s actually considering my question. “Music,” he says.
“Let me guess. Heavy metal? Death metal?” I joke.
“I like classical music, actually.”
Surprise skitters over me. Hudson’s the last person I would have expected to appreciate classical music.
“Really?” I ask.
“Surprised?”
“Well …”
He crooks a wry grin at me, the most I’ve seen his lips curl since I’ve met him. He looks good smiling. He should do it more often.
“As a reader,” he says, “you should know not to judge a book by its cover.”
He winks at me, a lightning-quick motion of his left eyelid, to tell me that he’s kidding. It only makes a swarm of butterflies flap their wings in my stomach.
“So,” he says, more of his usual gruffness coming back into his voice, “should we get this over with?”
“Not excited to talk with strangers about their feelings?” I tease.
The look in his eyes and the way he tilts his head just slightly to the side is all the answer I need.
I spot a guy sitting alone a couple tables over, scrolling his phone and not looking busy. The second floor of the library is the not-quiet floor where talking is allowed; lots of students come here to work on group projects, or just to hang out. He’s probably waiting for someone. Seems like he’s a good candidate to walk up to and interview first.
