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She steps away then, smiling and shaking her head. “Your words, not mine.”
I chuckle because I’ve embarrassed her, and she looks so darned cute when she’s embarrassed. “I’ve read some. Some I liked, some, not so much. But ‘of all creatures that breathe and move upon the Earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man,’” I say, poetically quoting Homer.
She turns to me with her eyebrows raised. “Who said that?”
“You’ll have to find out. He’s somewhere in this library.”
“Oh, it’s a he,” she quips, a light sarcasm in her tone. “Well, that narrows it down. It would take me a hundred years to go through these books and find that one line.”
I like the sound of that. Emma Carter in my life for a hundred years.
“Better get started, then,” I quip, taking a sip of my wine.
“You have to give me a clue.”
I nod over to the classics. “In there, somewhere.”
A little later, when we’ve both chosen something to read, we settle on the deep leather sofa in front of the fire, the only sound coming from the hissing and crackling of the logs that burn in front of us and an occasional turning page.
Emma is already absorbed by her book,An Unsocial Socialist, by George Bernard Shaw, while I only pretend to read mine. Sitting at an angle, my back pressed into the corner of the sofa with one knee resting on the cushions, I take sneak peeks at her over the pages, delighting at the expressions on her face as she reads.
After a few glances, I take a sip of wine and continue to pretend that I’m reading, but when I glance up at her again, she’s grinning at me.
“You know, reading involves actually turning the pages,” she says.
In my oversight, I’ve forgotten to do that, and now, she’s caught me out. I could try and lie my way out of it, but there’s no point. Emma’s just too smart for that.
Maybe you should just tell her the truth.
My pulse jumps at the idea. What if she laughs at me? What if she rejects me? What if I scare her away?
What if she doesn’t?My inner voice comes back.What if you just try?
I take in a breath and ready myself, and still holding her gaze, I say, “It’s hard to read when I can’t concentrate.”
She doesn’t ask me why. She doesn’t press for any explanation. In fact, she doesn’t speak at all. But her eyes don’t move from mine, and for the longest moment, we just look at each other.
“I see,” she says eventually, her voice little more than a whisper.
“No. You don’t. You don’t see what I see. I’m here with a beautiful woman. A woman who makes me catch my breath when I look at her. A woman who doesn’t always see how amazing she is. A woman who does more for other people than she’ll ever allow to be done for herself. So, you don’t see.”
20
Emma
I press my lipstogether, so my mouth doesn’t fall open with my now-slackened jaw. I’m trying to find words to reply to him, but all I can do is gaze into Ryan’s eyes. I have to say something. He’s just opened himself up and confessed what we both know has been simmering beneath the surface.
Admittedly, I didn’t quite expect such an eloquent expression of how he feels. In fact, I don’t think I’ve given Ryan enough credit for a lot of things. He continues to surprise me, but surely, that’s because I’ve misjudged him. Now, it’s only fair I give him back something in return.
“And I’m looking at a man who has more depth to him than people realize. A man with a reputation for being a bad boy, but beneath that façade, is sweet, and kind, and caring, and tender.”
It’s not great, but it’s the best I have on the spot.
“But is he sweet and kind and caring and tender enough for Emma Carter?” he says, his voice an octave deeper than a moment before. “Because this man doesn’t want anybody else.”
“Ryan… I…”
He places his book and wine down on the table beside him and moves across the sofa towards me. Taking my hands in his, he gazes down at me.