Almost Like Love(38)

So when are you going to tell me about your tattoos? When you got them, where you got them, why you got them?

The moment she hit send, she regretted it. Ian was at work, for God’s sake. She knew what he was like at work: all business.

She got up from the couch and started to pace. Not only had she bothered Ian with a trivial personal question in the middle of a workday, but now she was stuck waiting for a response that probably wouldn’t come.

She felt like a high school girl who texted a guy and then had to spend the rest of the day waiting for him to text her back . . . if he ever did. What in the world had possessed her to—

Beep.

She went back to the sofa and sat down before opening the email. Her heart was beating absurdly fast.

I suppose I might be persuaded to tell you someday . . . for the right price.

She read it over several times, her heart still racing and warmth creeping into her cheeks. After a moment she realized she was grinning like an idiot.

Was he flirting? It sounded like he was flirting. But maybe he was just teasing. Teasing wasn’t the same thing as flirting.

Not that she wanted him to flirt with her. Hadn’t she made a huge point of explaining that they shouldn’t cross that line?

But flirting wouldn’t really cross the line, would it? Kissing would cross the line. There was a big difference between kissing and flirting.

If he even was flirting. The more she read his email, the less certain she felt.

What kind of price are we talking?

Send.

A simple question. Not overtly flirtatious but not closing the door, either.

What are you offering?

Oh, great—the ball was back in her court.

She chewed on her lip for a moment.

Do you have a sweet tooth? I’m a pretty good baker.

Definitely a less flirtatious tone. It was the safer course, but she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret as she hit send.

That seems like a fair trade. We can discuss terms when I get home tonight.

He’d followed her lead in backing away from the flirting precipice—and, without being rude, had clearly indicated that they shouldn’t do any more emailing while he was at work.

Well done, Ian.

Well done, both of them, really.

So there was no reason to feel disappointed as she put her phone away and went to the bookshelves to pick out something to read.

There was a fairly wide selection. The fiction choices ranged from spy novels and thrillers to Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner, and the nonfiction included business books, military history, historical biographies, and sports biographies. All pretty typical stuff for a—

Kate froze. Tucked away on the bottom shelf and partly hidden by a floor lamp was something she recognized.

She moved the lamp out of the way and crouched down to look more closely.

It couldn’t be—but it was.

An original Dungeons & Dragons set.

Her older brother had been a player, and he’d used this identical set. How well she remembered the Dungeon Master’s Guide, not to mention the many-sided dice used to determine the events of the game, from character creation to battle outcomes.

This was one of the original bastions of geek culture. Could it be that cynical, practical, money-minded Ian Hart had once let his imagination roam in the world of swords and sorcery?

Of course, the set might not even belong to him. It could be Jacob’s—although she doubted it. This was a vintage collectible. But a friend or relative of Ian’s might have left it here. Or maybe it did belong to him but wasn’t something he’d ever used much. Kate knew how relics of youth could follow people through the years for no particular reason.

Kate sat down cross-legged on the floor, lifted the lid from the box, and pulled out one of the well-worn manuals.

property of ian hart had been written on the inside front cover in large block letters.

A slow smile spread across her face.

There was additional evidence of usage throughout. A young Ian had scribbled notes in the margins, and there were several character sheets stuck in between the pages. The one he’d played most often was a human warrior he’d named Galahad.

Kate closed the book and ran her fingers over the cover.

She ought to put it all back. Even though she hadn’t technically been snooping—the box was on a bookshelf in the living room, after all—she was quite sure that Ian would prefer to keep this part of his past private. The decent thing to do would be to replace the set where she’d found it.

A few minutes later, she’d carried the box over to the sofa and displayed the contents on the coffee table: rule books, dice, miniatures, and a faded map drawn on an enormous sheet of graph paper.

Then she curled up with a Robert Ludlum novel she’d taken from the bookshelf and waited for Ian to come home.