What The Heart Learns Page 5

  People spoke too much and thought far too little.

  He shouldn't have found himself charmed by her blurting.

  But maybe, just maybe, blurting was okay if it came from lips attached to a body that housed what seemed to be a pretty decent brain.

  "Don't bother, sweets," Eric said, shaking his head. "I'm his own brother, and he won't even tell me. Cute as you are, I don't think that will work on him either."

  "Oh, come on," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're really going to keep the brand of coffee a secret?"

  "I'm really going to keep the brand of coffee a secret," he affirmed, handing over her cup, noticing the way she carefully placed her own fingers. As though actively trying to avoid contact. As though something as chaste as a brushing of fingers ever - in reality - set of sparks and butterflies as it did in novels.

  "Weirdo," she declared, tucking her box of pastries on top of her stack of books, then picking the whole lot of it up, and making her way back to the front of the store.

  Eric followed out just a second later, and Liam would swear he was whistling that old playground taunt about kissing in a tree.

  He was too distracted to say something about it.

  Because he was quite sure that the pretty, surly, well-read, temperamental, bookish Riley was going to be in his bed before she headed back out of town again, and he found his way back into his books.

  FOUR

  Riley

  Okay.

  So her impulse control clearly needed some work.

  One moment, she was on her bed, staring at the ceiling, swearing her pride couldn't take going back to the store so soon.

  The next, she was storming into said store, and demanding her books back.

  It was useless to even be annoyed with herself over it, to wish she was the kind of woman who sat there, debating all her options, who stood in the mirror having fake conversations with herself to prepare for possible twists and turns to the discussion to make sure she kept calm when the moment arose, that she didn't get tongue-tied, that what did come out of her mouth was intelligent or at least halfway logical.

  Alas, that was not the woman she was.

  No.

  She was the woman who once charged into her high school summer job to tell the whole group of paying customers assembled there that her boss - soon to be former boss - was an ass-grabbing, lunch break jerking-off creep who probably got off watching cuckold porn in his spare time.

  Eloquent? No.

  But honest? Yes.

  She was a charger and a blurter and a think-on-her-toes type of woman.

  As it turned out, it hadn't been a mess to show up there still angry. She hadn't been given the chance to have her mouth run away from her.

  Because Liam's brother was there.

  Eric.

  It took all of one minute of talking to him - the older brother, she assumed - to decide that he must have been the kind of man a woman's mother warned her about. Everything about him was charming and sexy and alluring.

  He, apparently, got all the seduction and good-natured genes in the family.

  And while Eric was by no means dumb, it was obvious that Liam got all the smarty-pants genes.

  Riley had known enough smart, borderline geniuses to know that those with high IQs generally came with poor social skills, a certain kind of cockiness, and at least a trace of condescension.

  If she had met him under any other circumstances, she wouldn't have been bothered by it in the least. If anything, she probably would have found it incredibly attractive just like groupies always found arrogant and reckless rockstars irresistible. It was how she was wired; she was turned on by intelligence.

  And just about every woman on the planet was drawn to men who were sure of themselves.

  See, the thing was, Liam was her type.

  Actually, he was the absolute flawless manifestation of her perfect man.

  Unfortunately, there was bad blood there.

  He just didn't know it.

  She walked back to the inn - again - feeling no less frustrated than she had been the last time. But this time, more at herself, more at the situation, this awful twist of fate that led her to him, but also made her despise him entirely.

  "Not a bad haul," Devon's voice greeted her as she walked into the inn, noticing him again sitting atop the check-in desk, his fingers moving rapidly over the screen of his cell. "Am I to assume I won't be seeing that pretty face again until you finish all of them?" he asked, setting his cell on his thigh to look at her.

  "You can see my face anytime you want if you bring coffee with you," she told him, waving her to-go cup at him as she headed up the stairs.

  With that, she holed herself in her room for the rest of the afternoon, doing some work on her laptop, but mostly getting lost in the new worlds she had adopted into her life, not looking up until her eyes felt puffy and tired, making the words start to swim on the pages.

  She emerged from her room, following the rumbling of her stomach that said the sweets from the bookstore were no longer cutting it.

  Devon was gone, replaced with Em who was tearing around the lower floor, straightening things, dusting things, sitting, then hopping back up a few seconds later to shuffle papers, straighten pictures.

  Until a man showed up in gray slacks, a faded black band tee, and a suit jacket, grabbed her from behind, leaning down to whisper something in her ear that made her energetic body go suddenly lax, gooey in his arms.

  She pulled back, turning to face her. "You're on your own, Riley," she told her as she pulled her man down a hallway.

  Riley smiled, remembering those days. Those beginning days of a romance. Those 'can't keep your hands off each other' days.

  So she couldn't even hold it against Em as she walked toward the dining room, finding it depressingly full of happy people talking loudly, making her very much feel like an outsider. And more than a little surly that it didn't seem like the delicious smells of pasta sauce, fresh bread, or what looked like homemade salad dressing was going to be going anywhere near her mouth or hungry stomach for a good long while.

  And just as she was not a think-it-through kind of woman, she was also not a waiting-to-eat one either.

  If she was hungry, the kind of hungry where her stomach was grumbling about it, then, yeah, she needed food in under twenty minutes, or she might start doing something crazy. Like lashing out at strangers. Or eating carrots.

  After going back to her room to grab a book, she made her way onto the front porch, making her way onto the street, thinking of the diner, but changing her mind at the last minute when noticing that the bar had a sign out front about half priced appetizers.

  Food was great.

  Food and a drink?

  That sounded even better.

  Especially after her unusual day.

  She pulled open the door, hearing the thrum of music that didn't make her cringe, seeing what was a mostly-remodeled bar. Dark, like all bars. But modern, clean, inviting.

  She chose a spot at the furthest corner of the bar itself as to not invite conversation from the chatty locals as she finished her book.

  "Aw, baby, just can't get enough of me, huh?" Dane's deep, sexy voice called, making her head snap up to find him behind the bar, a black rag slung over his shoulder, his unsettling gold eyes fully focused on her in a way that made her actually have to fight squirming in her seat.

  Not wanting him to know he had any effect on her, she cocked her head to the side a bit. "What can I say, you leave an impression," she told him.

  To that, he gave her the kind of smirk that implied he knew she was telling the gods-honest truth, even if she was attempting sarcasm. "What am I getting you to drink? If it is something fruity, you can haul your pretty little ass off my barstool, head two towns over, and get that in a place that mixes that crap."

  "Whiskey sour," Riley ordered, unable to stop herself from smiling at him. She was human, after all.

  "Not bad," he allowed. "Would
be better whiskey straight or on the rocks, but I will let it slide."

  "How generous of you," Riley drawled, reaching for the bar snack menu as he moved away to make her drink.

  Alright, so maybe she possibly looked up from under her lashes to watch the way he moved around. Not because she was interested, of course. It was more scientific curiosity. The way people liked to watch the feral way lions and tigers moved around their enclosures at the zoo.

  We're all just animals, after all, she told herself. And Dane Broderick was simply the alpha of his species.

  "You're brave to eat here," Dane told her as he dropped down a coaster, and placed her down on it.

  "Oh, please. I've eaten in much sketchier places than this," she told him, sounding proud of the fact. Which, in a way, she was. "I have this Mexican place I love by my apartment that has half a dozen cats climbing over every surface."

  "Pussies everywhere," Dane mused with his signature devilish smile. "Sounds like my kind of place."

  And right then, she wondered.

  Wondered if maybe, possibly, she should let Dane take a ride around her bedsheets before she headed out of town.

  He was the safest bet in a lot of ways.

  Devon was sweet and charming, but young. And she maybe held out this strange little bit of hope that the two of them could be long-distance friends someday.

  Oh, how weird. You came up on my friends suggestions on Facebook! Long time no see!

  And all that other nonsense followed by years of liking each other's posts.

  Casual and commitment-free like she liked things.

  And Liam, well, Liam was absolutely, positively, not a freaking option.

  Nope.

  No way.

  Not a chance in hell.

  Besides, Dane had shown interest.

  Dane, she was sure, would make it all worth the tiniest hint of shame she'd know she'd feel from falling into bed with someone such as him.

  "What can I get you, baby?" Dane asked, voice low and rumbling as he rested his forearms on the bar, leaning in close, and, yeah, she wasn't immune to the raw animal magnetism he had.

  It could be fun, a voice in her head told her.

  It would be something you'd beat yourself up over for months to come, her better angel piped in.

  She swallowed hard, deciding it was something she would think on. While she was one for rash decisions, sometimes she could rein it in a little to think something through.

  "The app sampler," she told him without really giving it any thought. "Oh, and spin dip. And extra mozz sticks," she rushed, making Dane's handsome face break into a genuine smile for a change.

  "Christ, where are you putting it all?" he asked, shaking his head as he turned to put her order into the kitchen.

  Fifteen minutes later, she had half a drink in her, had fried goodness scattered all around her, and had her nose buried in her book.

  That was when someone slid in beside her.

  Being somewhat antisocial almost as a rule, she'd learned long ago not to look.

  If you looked, if you made eye contact, you were obliged to acknowledge their presence with a smile.

  When you smiled, they said hello.

  Then it was all downhill from there.

  Until you somehow knew this stranger's profession, how many siblings or offspring they had, and where they wanted to vacation the following year.

  It was obnoxious, superficial, and unnecessary.

  So she kept her head ducked until she heard the thump of a book hit the bar beside her.

  She didn't need to look up to know who it was. "Most of the bar is empty," she informed him. "You could literally sit anywhere else to read your book."

  "Do you always bring books to bars?"

  "They're supposed to be the best defense against unwanted conversation," she declared, finally looking up to find him close.

  Way, way too close.

  "And yet," he said, waving slightly.

  "And yet," she agreed as Dane walked up, dropping off whiskey neat in front of Liam without him having to order, then walked off without saying anything.

  "This bug up your ass, is it personal?"

  "The... bug up my ass?" she repeated, tone getting heated.

  "Yeah. Whatever it is that makes you smile at Eric, Maude, and Dane, then practically hiss at me. Personal? You have something against me?"

  "Yes," she spat before she could help herself.

  "Are you planning on telling me what it is, or is this going to be the most exhaustive game of Fifty Questions known to man?"

  "No, I am not going to tell you. And you may ask all you want, but I am under no obligation to answer. And I won't. So save your breath."

  Somehow not offended, completely unfazed by her snappiness, he reached over and tapped her book. "Fast reader, or is it too good to put down?"

  "Both."

  "All the books you bought today were indie. And the ghostwriting comment earlier. Do you have something against chart-toppers?"

  "Only in the way that the industry fawns over them, regardless of the fact that half the books they put out would never get the same amount of sales or acclaim if they had someone else's name on the cover."

  "It's a flawed system," he agreed, turning his glass around in a circle, but not raising it to drink. "A book sells, the publisher throws a ton of money at them to write another. Then because they invested so much, they advertise the hell out of it to get it a following. So on and so forth until there are only one or two big names in any given genre, and everyone else barely gets a shot at a chance reading from an agent's slush pile, let alone a limited print run."

  He was right.

  He was so, so right.

  And she was all the more annoyed with him for understanding something like that.

  "It's expensive for a bookseller to buy indie books. It's not a smart business move," she told him, begrudgingly bookmarking her place.

  "I sell a shitton of the categories. I can afford a couple indies here and there."

  "You have an entire wall of them," she reminded him.

  "I like to read them too," he confessed, making her stomach clench hard.

  "There,"he said when she looked suddenly away. "That look. What was that?"

  "This guy bothering you?" Dane asked, walking up and leaning against the back bar. "'Cause let me tell you, baby, this schmuck has bad news written all over him."

  "No worries. I find him about as appealing as a slice of molded bread," Riley announced, scooting her stool a few inches away from him.

  "Though I don't know how much her taste can be trusted," Liam said, not the least bit offended, damn him. "Look at the shit she's eating."

  "I'm sitting right here."

  "Pretty though," Dane said and she caught the wink he shot at her.

  "Okay. I am going to need about three more of these," she said, downing the rest of her drink, "if I am expected to put up with the two of you."

  Somehow, inexplicably, before she even knew how it all happened, she was two drinks down, and in a heated debate with Liam about Tolkien and George R.R. Martin.

  "Boffers and Bofurs and Brandybucks. I mean come on," Riley grumbled, gesticulating with a mozzarella stick.

  "Right. And characters who mean nothing to the plot, have no relevance to the story at all, somehow need two pages of back story?" Liam shot back, defending Tolkien by insulting Martin. And, the most interesting part of the whole thing was, she didn't even know if Liam genuinely preferred Tolkien, or if he was simply able to choose either side and defend it at will.

  "Fine. Then I have one word for you to end this argument right here," Riley declared, biting into her mozzarella stick, chewing as he slowly waited for her TKO. "Sex," she said with a chin raise.

  To that, Liam smiled slowly, almost boyishly, as he looked away, his hand raising and rubbing across the back of his neck before he looked back at her again. "You've got a point there."

  "I win," she declared victoriously. />
  "Tolkien outsells Martin." He wasn't done, apparently, not willing to give in so easily.

  "Right because it's always the best books that sell the most. I think we have a lot of recent examples of that being wholly untrue."

  "Fanfic turns mainstream?" Liam mused.

  "Something like that," she agreed, smiling before she caught herself, making it falter and fall as she remembered she wasn't supposed to like him, that she wasn't supposed to be bonding with him about their shared love of literature. "I have to get going," she declared, reaching for her wallet, tossing money on the bar, leaving several precious chips and dollops of spin dip on the plate, and it broke her heart a little to do so.

  She was on the sidewalk when he jogged up to fall into step beside her.

  "Tell me why you blow so hot and cold with me," he demanded, reaching out to hand her the book she had forgotten to pick up in her haste.

  She took it, carefully avoiding touching his hand.

  "Tell me why you care."

  "You want the truth?" he asked.

  She wasn't sure.

  "Yes."

  "I... I like your brain, Riley. You have some good shit rolling around in there. Do you have any idea how rare that is to find nowadays?"

  She wanted to believe that.

  But she knew better.

  She knew better because she knew what he actually thought of her brains when he didn't have a face and a body to go along with it.

  And that, well, it made everything he had to say land flat and false.

  "I do," she said with a shrug. "But I also know that you have no idea what you are talking about."

  "Care to be a little more cryptic there, Riley?" he asked, an edge of frustration slipping into his tone.