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Hannah clears her throat and puts the book back. “We have that in common.”
An awkward silence drifts between us. She looks down at her feet, then shakes her head and turns back to the books. “This is really an amazing collection.” She moves from one bookcase to the next, until she reaches the one I caught her in front of before. “Lots of middle-grade fiction and kids’ books. Oh, cute, there’s even a section for toddlers. You know, I’ve been hoping to revamp the kids section of the library.”
“You have?”
“I wanted to start a whole reading initiative before I left. Get kids interested in books again. But I just don’t have the funds for it. I’ve been thinking of approaching the local schools and seeing if they’d be interested in helping host a fundraising event.”
“I’ll help.”
“W-What?” She spins toward me, eyes wide.
“I’ll help you,” I say.
What are you doing? You don’t like people.
“I’ll sponsor the event,” I say. “Help you get some more people interested in taking part.”
“You can’t be serious,” Hannah replies. “You’d do that?”
“If it would help,” I say. “I like kids. Always thought I would…” I glance off toward one side and swallow. “I thought I would have one.”
Hannah falls silent, and I can tell she’s watching me. “Savage?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
“What?”
“Whatever it is that’s making you upset.”
“No.” It’s the easiest word for me. Shut it down. Shut her out. “I’ll be in the living room when you’re done. You can read whatever you want, but it’s warmer in there if you want to sit on the sofa and read. I’m going to stoke the fire.”
“Thank you,” she says. “This is amazing.”
“It’s nothing.”
But she comes over before I can walk away. She slides her arms around my waist and hugs me.
I freeze for a moment then hug her back, hesitant. She feels good in my arms, like she was meant to be there. I step out of her grasp, turn and walk away.
Nineteen
HANNAH
The day has worn on. Savage has spent it on the leather armchair across from the sofa, his laptop on his lap while I read. Lunch was grilled cheese sandwiches paired with white wine, and the rain patters on. Not roaring like it was last night or even this morning, but a steady drum of noise.
He grunts under his breath and lifts his phone, using those large thumbs to type something out on the screen. His sweater tugs over his biceps, and I can’t help staring at him. Or remembering the look on his face when he caught me in the library.
Not just anger, but a coldness.
Like a shutter had slammed shut over his emotions. Like he was looking through me at someone else.
I take a sip of my wine and try to focus on the page in my book, but I can’t concentrate because of Savage.
His presence isn’t just distracting, it makes me squirm. I’m constantly thinking of how he pressed into me earlier, how angry he got, and his words from last night. That he is a broken man.
“You want to play a drinking game?” I ask.
