Russian, and at least one from Greece.
I spotted a couple of travelogues. They weren’t something I was interested in, but for a fiction lover who loves to get lost in stories, those are about the closest you get to being whisked away to somewhere you’ve never been and encountering stories from people you would never meet. Based on what she told me about her love of reading, those made perfect sense in her collection.
She had one of almost everything, but I noticed there were no children’s or young adult books. Odd. Lots of adults were reading young adult these days. I had even picked up a few myself and found them surprisingly appealing.
I ran my finger across the books, from one spine to another, wondering what kind of erotic thoughts these books might have put in Rachel’s head. Or maybe those thoughts were already there, all her own, and I could find out her limits myself.
I was thinking about her going through my bookshop and the gems she would find in there when I heard the words, “Thank you.” Her soft voice drifted into the room.
I turned around, pulling my hand from the row of books.
She was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, the white top sheet loosely wrapped around her body. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, but otherwise it looked like she’d slid out of bed naked, taking the sheet with her and standing there facing me.
I wanted to walk over to her, pull the sheet off and not even take the time to go back to the bedroom. The couch was right there. It would do.
But she had thanked me. “For what?” I asked.
She pulled the sheet tighter around her. “For telling me your first name.”
I walked over to her, putting my arms around her. Her head dropped to my shoulder. She felt so delicate, something I hadn’t noticed last night. Maybe she was tense then, and relaxed now.
“Can I still call you Finn?” Her voice was slightly muffled with her lips against my skin.
I let out a little laugh. “You don’t like the name Malcolm?”
“No, that’s not it. I just—”
I cut her off. “I was kidding. You can call me whatever you like.”
As soon as I said it, a pang of guilt stabbed me in the gut. Jesus, the secrets I was keeping from her.
“I’m sorry about the whole name thing the other night,” she said.
I shook my head. “It’s in the past. Forget it.”
She lifted her head, looked me in the eyes, and said, “And yes, I want to call you Finn. It’s just that I’ve known you by that name for so long. And even though I’ve only seen you twice now, that’s who you are to me. I have this thing about names,” she said, pausing, and I let her take as long as she wanted before continuing. “I think it’s from reading. You know, associating characters with names because even when an author describes them you still paint your own picture in your mind. But for me, it’s the names.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, I can’t really explain it.”
I kissed her forehead. “I get what you’re saying.”
She shook her head slowly, as if she were about to say something negative, but instead said, “You always have.”
We stood there in silence for a few moments, me holding her, and the urge to move her to the couch getting stronger by the second.
“You hungry?” she asked, breaking my train of thought.
I visualized what I’d seen in her refrigerator and quickly came up with a solution so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings. “Let’s order Chinese. Know any places that deliver this late?”
. . . . .
The food arrived within thirty minutes. We spread it out on her coffee table and sat on the floor next to each other as we ate.
Rachel handed me a fortune cookie. “Do you believe in these things?”
“No,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. But open yours anyway.”
I did, and read it aloud: “Now is the time to try something new.”
“Oh,” she said, “maybe we’re both wrong and we really
I spotted a couple of travelogues. They weren’t something I was interested in, but for a fiction lover who loves to get lost in stories, those are about the closest you get to being whisked away to somewhere you’ve never been and encountering stories from people you would never meet. Based on what she told me about her love of reading, those made perfect sense in her collection.
She had one of almost everything, but I noticed there were no children’s or young adult books. Odd. Lots of adults were reading young adult these days. I had even picked up a few myself and found them surprisingly appealing.
I ran my finger across the books, from one spine to another, wondering what kind of erotic thoughts these books might have put in Rachel’s head. Or maybe those thoughts were already there, all her own, and I could find out her limits myself.
I was thinking about her going through my bookshop and the gems she would find in there when I heard the words, “Thank you.” Her soft voice drifted into the room.
I turned around, pulling my hand from the row of books.
She was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, the white top sheet loosely wrapped around her body. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, but otherwise it looked like she’d slid out of bed naked, taking the sheet with her and standing there facing me.
I wanted to walk over to her, pull the sheet off and not even take the time to go back to the bedroom. The couch was right there. It would do.
But she had thanked me. “For what?” I asked.
She pulled the sheet tighter around her. “For telling me your first name.”
I walked over to her, putting my arms around her. Her head dropped to my shoulder. She felt so delicate, something I hadn’t noticed last night. Maybe she was tense then, and relaxed now.
“Can I still call you Finn?” Her voice was slightly muffled with her lips against my skin.
I let out a little laugh. “You don’t like the name Malcolm?”
“No, that’s not it. I just—”
I cut her off. “I was kidding. You can call me whatever you like.”
As soon as I said it, a pang of guilt stabbed me in the gut. Jesus, the secrets I was keeping from her.
“I’m sorry about the whole name thing the other night,” she said.
I shook my head. “It’s in the past. Forget it.”
She lifted her head, looked me in the eyes, and said, “And yes, I want to call you Finn. It’s just that I’ve known you by that name for so long. And even though I’ve only seen you twice now, that’s who you are to me. I have this thing about names,” she said, pausing, and I let her take as long as she wanted before continuing. “I think it’s from reading. You know, associating characters with names because even when an author describes them you still paint your own picture in your mind. But for me, it’s the names.” She shrugged. “I don’t know, I can’t really explain it.”
I kissed her forehead. “I get what you’re saying.”
She shook her head slowly, as if she were about to say something negative, but instead said, “You always have.”
We stood there in silence for a few moments, me holding her, and the urge to move her to the couch getting stronger by the second.
“You hungry?” she asked, breaking my train of thought.
I visualized what I’d seen in her refrigerator and quickly came up with a solution so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings. “Let’s order Chinese. Know any places that deliver this late?”
. . . . .
The food arrived within thirty minutes. We spread it out on her coffee table and sat on the floor next to each other as we ate.
Rachel handed me a fortune cookie. “Do you believe in these things?”
“No,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. But open yours anyway.”
I did, and read it aloud: “Now is the time to try something new.”
“Oh,” she said, “maybe we’re both wrong and we really
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