Page 112 of Power Play

“This one?”

“Read it once without trying to impress anybody.”

“You?”

“Especially me.”

“That seems unlikely now that we’ve established monogamous literary expectations.”

Ryan nearly choked on his coffee.

I smiled sweetly while he set the mug down. “You’re getting bold.”

“I’m developing confidence.”

“Brown created a monster.”

“You helped.”

“Yeah.” His eyes moved slowly over my face. “I did.”

The heat in his gaze made me look at the page.

I began reading, and the poem felt simple until it didn’t. By the final lines, the obsessive devotion had crawled beneath my skin. Love that refused to accept death as separation should have felt theatrical enough to dismiss, but something about the insistence made my chest ache.

When I looked up, Ryan was watching me instead of the book.

“What?”

“You.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is.”

My pulse climbed. “You’re supposed to ask what I think.”

“I know what you think.”

“That is academic malpractice.”

“Fine.” He leaned back. “What did you feel?”

I looked down again. “Like he believes death has no authority over his love for her.”

“Why?”

“He still calls her his life and his bride. He doesn’t treat those things like they ended when she died.” I ran one finger beneath the line. “Everyone else sees a grave. He still sees her.”

“Romantic?”

“Devastating.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You enjoy this entirely too much.”

“I enjoy watching you stop looking for permission.”