All his books have similar covers. Unlike the fun and colorful covers on most of the new romances we’ve been getting in, his are a little more muted. No fun illustrations on the cover, always scenic pictures, never a model. His name is in large bold print, in most cases larger than the title of the book. I always thought they seemed a little pretentious, but now, after only a short time around him, I see them with a different set of eyes. Like the soft colors and delicate font are a promise of gentleness inside. Just like the author.

My fingers trail across the covers as I place them on the large coffee table, careful not to bend the corners or disturb the crisp pages. It’s a familiar dance. One I’ve been doing since I was a kid. One I’ve been practicing solo for the last few months. And maybe that’s why any lingering awkwardness fades as Jasper works in tandem beside me. The silence provides a comfort I didn’t think would be possible alongside Jasper.

“Wow.” His voice pulls me out of the comfortable silence we’ve been working in as he takes the last book out of his box. “Sometimes I forget how many of these things I’ve written.”

He drags his hand through his thick hair before tearing his gaze from the table and moving it to me. A faint shade of pink tinges his cheeks as he shrugs his shoulders, his lips curving up into a shy smile that changes his entire face and, if it were possible, makes him a million times more attractive.

“You have written quite a few,” I agree with him, the understatement not missed by either of us. “Are you working on a new book now?”

I don’t know how this writing thing works. At some point, he has to stop, right? Like one day, there will be no more stories to tell? Maybe he’ll want to move on to something else. Get out from behind the computer and actually experience the world he writes about.

“I am.” His long legs make quick work of the small space before he pulls one of the rocking chairs closer to the table. My heart stutters in my chest when I realize what chair it is. I watch as he folds into my grandma’s chair. The old, unused wood creaks beneath his weight. “I just started it, actually.”

“Oh really? That’s exciting.” I say the words, but there’s no emotion behind them. I’m too busy trying to think of an excuse to get him to switch chairs.

“It is. I’ve been wanting to tell this story for a while now, and the time is finally right. It’s kind of like Need You Now meets Party of One. Have you read either one of those?”