“Tell me more.” The intensity of his focus flustered me, but I also wanted to keep talking. I remembered that little bit he’d shared about his parents pushing him to swim, and I wanted him to know me better.

“When I was a teen I got into DIYing and crafts. I did all kinds of fun stuff with book cover prints. If a book really got to me, it was all I wanted to talk about. I’d pore over fan art and fanfic, whatever could keep me in that world for a little longer.” Even now as an adult nothing had the ability to comfort or shelter me like a good book could.

“I always saw you with your reader,” Theo mused. “But I didn’t know books meant that much to you.”

“Book people, like real book people...are sort of hard-core. That’s why I started Bookish,” I explained, unable to stop the excitement that came through anytime I talked about my business. “I knew there were readers like me out there who thought nothing was too extra or too over the top when it came to expressing their love for their favorite stories. And I was right.” I let myself get a little cocky then, because the community I’d created with Bookish Boudoir was something I was extremely proud of. He only nodded and kept looking at me with those keen gray eyes.

“What’s your favorite book?”

I gasped in horror at this question.

“That’s something a true book person would never ask.” I was yelling, but he grinned like he was utterly amused by my horror. “It’s impossible to answer!” He laughed so hard the corners of his eyes crinkled and something tightened in my chest. “What’s yours, then?”

“I’m not a huge reader,” he admitted regretfully. “I used to love Sherlock Holmes when I was a kid though.” I’d figured as much, and it was probably for the best. For a man with that face, that body and that bank account to also be a book nerd would be too much.

“I love a good mystery.” I almost told him that in middle school I’d tried to decorate my room like it was Sherlock’s apartment on Baker Street and my mother had almost killed me, but I was already sharing way too much of my bio. And I didn’t want to talk about my parents tonight.

“Are you done?” he asked, looking down at my very empty plate. The conversation had been so easy, I’d eaten every bite and had barely noticed.

“I am,” I told him, patting my very happy stomach. “Thank you.” For dinner, for asking me about things that matter to me. For listening like the answers were important.

“Good, come on then,” he said and stood up, then extended his hand down to me.