Page 44 of What He Doesn't Know

Cameron held me for a moment as my eyes took in the new shelves and surroundings. Then, he patted my butt playfully, finally letting me go.

“I’m going to hop in the shower, if you want to get ready, too. Then I’ll drop you off at your mom’s on my way to the game?”

My eyes were stuck on the book that stood out among the classics Cameron had arranged for me.Anna Karenina.She was too worn next to my other classics, those spines so gently handled and perfectly kept. I’d have to move her again.

I blinked.

“Yes, I’d love that.”

“Be right out.”

Cameron kissed my hair once more before he disappeared, and a few seconds later, I heard the shower running in the other room. But I just stood and stared at the half-finished library, at all my familiar books shelved in a completely unfamiliar room.

I finally stepped inside, fingers reaching for Tolstoy first. I ran them over the spine, taking in the feel of the brown cloth before I pulled it from its place. I sat it on the table next to the hammock, deciding I would read it over the weekend. It would be my first read — an old book in a new library.

I was careful not to step on any tools or bolts as I made my way out of the room. Before I shut the door, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at the closet — the one that was empty now.

It would never be empty to me.

Later that night, I found myself surrounded by red and pink everything.

Each year, my parents hosted a Valentine’s Day fundraiser. It was a formal dinner with dancing and a silent auction held at the country club in their development. Mom had been the host of it since before I was born, and every year she somehow seemed to outdo herself.

Really, it was Mom who took on most of it. Dad would just show up the night of the event, run the microphone for the welcome and the farewell, and cruise the room talking to all of the guests. But Mom was in charge of getting everything in order for the event — from the invitations to the auction items.

I still remembered when she used to plan the menu and cook with the other chefs for the event. Somewhere down the line, the fundraiser became too large, and she eventually had to start delegating.

Delegating, I had found over the years, was very difficult for my mother to do.

“Make sure the ribbon ties around this way,” she said to me, demonstrating as she spoke. “And tucks in here, and then you’ll want the flowers to sit exactly like this, okay? And for any of them that need cellophane, make sure it’s not bunched up in a way that the guests won’t be able to see what’s inside.”

“Mom.”

“And if you have any questions, just flag me down. I’m serious. I have to make some phone calls but I’m around.” She chewed her lip. “Oh gosh, should I just stay and help with this?”

“Mom,” I said again, grabbing her upper arms with a smile. It was like grabbing a slightly older version of myself. She was practically a mirror. “I’ve got this, okay? I think I can handle wrapping up the donated items for the auction.”

Her brows bent together before she finally released her lip with a sigh. “Oh, I know you’re right. You’ve been my best little helper all your life.”

“And I’ve been a part of this auction since I could walk,” I reminded her. “I’ve got this. Go do whatever it is you need to do.”

“Okay. But if you need me—“

“I won’t. Go. And Mom?”

She was chewing her lip again.

“The fundraiser will be wonderful, just like it always is. Stop worrying. You’re an amazing hostess.”

At that, she smiled, rubbing my hand over her arm just as her cell phone rang. She answered it with a wink in my direction before flurrying off down the hall.

I shook my head, crossing my arms over my chest as I took in the two long tables piled high with donations that I needed to sort into baskets to be bid on.

“This thing just gets bigger every year, doesn’t it?”

I wished there was a warning signal for when Reese was around me, wished my brain could somehow alert me before my body had the chance to react. But as it was, he’d just slid up right beside me, silently and without warning, and now all the hairs on my arms were standing tall. A chill swept through me, so quickly I wondered if I even really felt it.

That used to happen when we were younger, that buzz of electricity, especially when I’d hear the door open from his parents’ kitchen late at night. I’d sit there, pretending that I was still reading my book, that I hadn’t heard him come in. But then he’d be there, in the kitchen with me, messing up my braids with a rub of his hand and cracking open one of his dad’s beers.