Page 54 of Forever Then

Chapter Forty-Two

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Gretchen

At six on the dot, Connor knocks on his own front door.

Butterflies take flight in my stomach as I clasp my dangly turquoise earrings and prance toward the door like a giddy teenager.

He left for the gym a couple hours ago, announcing he would get ready there, while I got ready here.

Since I’m still living out of my suitcase and desperately need to do laundry, I opted for a pair of light denim shorts with a frayed hemline paired with a short-sleeve, coral, linen shirt that I’ve left unbuttoned down to my navel, revealing the white tank underneath.

A pair of brown leather sandals finish off the outfit and I’ve kept my hair down in long, loose curls.

I swing the door open as wide as the smile on my face.

Connor leans against the doorjamb, hands in the pockets of his gray shorts, his broad shoulders and trim waist filling out his black V-neck t-shirt in the best way. The scruff along his jaw and around his mouth, still untouched by a razor, screams at me to run my fingers through it.

His throat bobs as his baby blues give me a thorough inspection. “Well, look at you, Fish.”

I curtsey playfully as he steps inside. “Ah, ah, ah. I don’t invite guys inside my place on the first date.”

He rubs his lips together, eyes twinkling. “Oh, so this is your place now?” I smile. “You ready for our first date?”

“I’d say it’s about time. What big gestures do you have up your sleeve? I already don’t see a bouquet of flowers.” I roll my eyes. “But there’s still time to redeem yourself, I suppose. Fireworks? Private viewing of a Broadway show? Bottle of Don Perignon?”

“No, nothing like that.” He pinches my waist and I collapse into him as his arm hooks around my back. “Because you”—he bops my nose—“don’t like big gestures.”

I hum out a contented sigh as his mouth drifts closer. “Says who?”

“Says the guy who knows you better than anyone else,” he whispers.

“You’re really gonna milk that one, aren’t you?”

“Just stating facts.” His hand cups my jaw.

“I’m not supposed to kiss you until the end of the night.

” He pulls me in tighter. “Will you let me kiss you before it even starts?” His husky whisper is but a breath tangling with mine as he runs his hand down the column of my neck.

“A little one?” His hand moves until his fingers knot in my hair and my eyes flutter shut. “The smallest kiss, I promise.”

“Connor?”

“Hmm.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Our lips meet. He hauls me into him and my back arches, but his body follows, never losing an inch of connection. I angle my head, our mouths open, tongues greedy and seeking.

I throw one arm around his neck while my other hand kneads into his chest where I can feel the feverish beat of his heart.

When he brings his hand down to meet mine, intertwining our fingers, they squeeze tight with the restraint I’m unable to find at the moment.

The hand at my back moves down the backside of my shorts, his fingers finding the skin of my leg right below the hem before he takes my ass by the handful and tugs me up and into him, impossibly, ruthlessly even more than I was before.

Our lips give chase, a vicious circle of clashing tongues and teeth that I never want to end. I want to glide my hand down to where I know he’s hard for me, but his grip on my hand is solid, not letting me move an inch in that direction.

Simultaneously, we release for air, foreheads coming together.

“These shorts are gonna be a problem,” he says with a final pinch.

I laugh, still breathless, as we peel our bodies apart.

“I didn’t bring flowers.”

“Clearly.”

“Smartass. But I do come bearing gifts.” He pulls a package of peanut butter M&Ms from his pocket and the burst of laughter that escapes me is instant. “I know the way to your heart, Fish, and it isn’t flowers.”

I take the package, clutching it to my chest like a prized possession. It’s such a tiny, silly thing, but thoughtful all the same and I love him for it.

I love him.

“It’s the best kept secret for deep dish pizza in the city. It’ll be worth the wait.”

Connor holds the door for me as we exit the tiny Italian restaurant. We’re on the wait list and now we have an hour to kill.

“Is this the part where we debate Chicago versus New York pizza?”

He scoffs as he takes my hand and leads me down the sidewalk. “Oh, please. There is no comparison. Deep dish for life.”

“Nah, you just haven’t had the New York experience yet.

I’ll convert you.” I nudge his shoulder as my comment settles over the moment.

My interview is next week and the painful reality is that I’ll be leaving my heart behind in Chicago.

He said we’d talk about it later and I don’t want this subject to sour our first date so I push past the intrusive thoughts and plaster on a smile.

He nudges me back with a wink, his signature smirk all warm and smug. “If anybody could convert me, it’d be you.”

He plants a soft kiss on the back of my hand, bringing us to a stop.

“We’re here.”

Only half a block from the restaurant, I look up at the unmarked shop before us.

The windows are foggy and mostly barricaded by shelves pushed up against them from the inside.

There’s no commerce-friendly glass entrance door.

Instead, a solid wood door, painted dark blue and adorned with an ornate antique gold knob at its center beckons those passing by.

“Where’s here?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He leads us closer and I finally notice the placard on the door face in dire need of a polish. The tiny inscription says,

Mullins Book Collectors

est. 1973

My heart clenches at the memory.

Stepping inside is like stepping into your grandparents living room.

Worn velvet couches and settees of all different colors and sizes fill the gaps between the mismatched shelves.

The lack of natural light is made up for with the abundance of floor lamps and overhead lights controlled by the delicate chains that float mere inches above our heads.

The aisles created by the strategic placement of shelves leaves room for not much more than a single person to pass through at a time.

The whole place smells of paper and binding. It’s divine.

“Isn’t it great?” Connor whispers into my ear, my expression awestruck as we tread lightly into the quiet space .

“This is beautiful.” I look around, taking in the stillness. “Are they even open?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” a gruff voice comes from the back and an elderly man, no younger than eighty, steps around the corner. Shoulders hunched, he wears a knit sweater-vest over a checkered collared shirt. A pair of black rimmed bifocals hang around his neck by a gold chain.

“Well, I’ll be. Connor, is that you?” the man asks.

“It’s me, Mr. Mullins. And this is my girlfriend, Gretchen.”

I introduce myself as Connor continues, “Mr. Mullins runs a very tight ship. Only stocking classics and books th?—”

“Books that I think should be classics,” Mr. Mullins finishes.

“It’s a book collector’s dream.” Connor smiles fondly at the kind man. “Where’s your daughter? I thought she’s supposed to be running this place for you now?”

Mr. Mullins waves his hand. “Oh, Victoria and her husband are at the Carova house with your parents for a couple of weeks. My grandson was just here though. I’m sorry you missed him. He’s actually going to be taking the reins soon.” A proud gleam fills his eye.

“Three generations. That’s impressive,” I say.

“I’m a blessed man.”

“Connor, how’s your family?”

“Good. I’m sure they’re getting up to plenty of trouble with Victoria and Tom out at the beach house.”

The conversation with Connor’s parents on the phone last week comes to remembrance: Carova house, Gene.

Their conversation volleys back and forth, the family history and connection evident in every affectionate word, until Mr. Mullins turns his expectant smile on me. “So, what are we in the market for today, young lady?”

“Oh…um…I don’t know.”

Connor’s warm hand settles on my back. “I think we’re just going to browse today, Mr. Mullins.”

“Boy, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Gene. ”

For the next half hour, Gene gives us the grand tour of his little shop.

Every single book is tucked inside its own dedicated clear plastic sleeve, but it does nothing to detract from the jaw-dropping collection.

Entire shelves dedicated to early edition copies of Charles Dickens and another shelf entirely for the works of Shakespeare.

Stacks and rows of J.R. Tolkien and C.S.

Lewis. A half dozen rolling carts filled to the brim with Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters and Virginia Woolfe.

John Steinbeck here, F. Scott Fitzgerald there.

The whole place an eclectic amalgamation of whimsy meeting nostalgia.

Every nook and cranny reveals literary treasures dating as far back as first editions printed over two hundred years ago.

“So, what’s the most valuable book you have?” I ask.

Gene leads us to a small shelf tucked in the corner by the front counter. On it rests a handful of books. “These are my most prized possessions.” He pulls a small, dusty hardback off the shelf. “They belonged to my father.”

“May I?” I take the book he holds out for me. “ The Book of Common Prayers .”

“I also have my father’s bible,” Gene says, thoughtfully running his hand over the cover.

I point to a thin spine that looks rather contemporary by comparison to the others. “And that one?”

“ The Big Book ,” he answers.

I swallow the heavy lump in my throat when I see Alcoholics Anonymous in big, bold print on the front cover. A quick glance back to the shelf reveals another spine that reads, The Trauma of War .