Nerd Girl(43)

I noticed a used copy of Jane Eyre and picked it up. “I love this book. I love Brontë and Austen. They wrote such timeless love stories,” I said casually. “If you think about it, the common person didn’t have typewriters or editors; or at least, I don’t think they did. The concept of marketing was probably only by word of mouth. The thing that made these stories persist over time was the quality of the writing and the stories themselves. Jane Eyre was so beautifully written.”

“Why do all women love these books so much?”

I gave him a reprimanding look. He looked back at me, feigning innocence.

“Their love stories were so simple, really,” I explained. “It only took a single meeting or a letter or a look across the room before they wanted to profess their love for one another. Their love consumed their whole existence.”

“Simple? I totally disagree.” Ryan shook his head emphatically. “One of the main reasons why these books are such popular stories is because their stories are so complicated. They’re the total opposite of simple. Their social structure and etiquette makes it even more so. Each story is a misunderstanding, a long journey that the author takes the reader on, and telling the story is lengthy enough to be book worthy. It is definitely not simple.”

Touché.

He continued to press his point. “I mean, look at Rochester. He hid a wife from his governess, from the whole house for that matter. That’s not simple. Did he honestly think he could get away with hiding someone behind the wall?”

“Okay, you win!” I held up my hands in defeat. “Closet Brontë fan, I see.”

He smirked at my comment, but looked smug.

“You’re right,” I conceded. “I guess love makes you desperate and people do irrational things. These stories are far from simple. It was an incorrect choice of words. I meant that their love was pure and all consuming—Jane and Rochester, Catherine and Heathcliff, Elizabeth and Darcy. Satisfied?”

“Yes,” he said smugly.

“I guess I wonder why people always have to make things so darn complicated. I think the best love stories, the real ones, at least, are those that aren’t complicated. No drama, no issues. People meet, fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. They just know. I’ve never had that. Maybe that’s why I’m still single.”

“I’m seeing a pattern here with you. You don’t like the color gray,” he observed and then added with a mischievous look, “The best love stories are complicated, because it wouldn’t sell books otherwise.”

I purposely tried to shove him playfully with my shoulder to protest his cavalier attitude. I stumbled in my attempt and fell into him. He lost his balance and grabbed both of my shoulders to prevent his fall. He ended up stumbling into the bookshelf behind him, taking me with him, but we somehow remained standing on our feet.

“Whoa!” he laughed.

We were in the back of the bookstore and he was smiling and holding me close. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my cheeks. I had the strongest urge to kiss him. He looked down at my lips and I knew he wanted to kiss me too. It was just one of those perfect kissing moments, like the kind you read about in books, no pun intended. There was electricity in the air and a pulling force bringing our heads closer together. Just when I thought he was going to touch his lips onto mine, an older gentleman walked into the aisle. Ryan suddenly released me so quickly that I stumbled backwards and had to brace myself by throwing my hand out onto another bookshelf. It felt a little like whiplash.

The gentleman coughed uncomfortably as he maneuvered himself past us, mumbling, “Excuse me.”

“Come on. We should probably get you home,” Ryan said and led me back out to the market aisles. “We still have to pick up your car, remember?”

Despite our interrupted moment, I smiled to myself, because he was still holding my hand. “What are you doing this evening?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

He shrugged. “No plans.”

“Really?” I must have sounded sympathetic.

“Yeah, really.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m a big boy,” he assured me.

Before I could stop myself, it was out of my mouth. “Well, would you like to join me and my friends for dinner? It would be with my sister Anna and her fiancé, Ethan. My friend, Dexter, is also visiting from London.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m good. It’s really nice of you to ask, though,” he said politely.

“No, I mean it. I would love it if you would join us,” I implored with as much persuasion as I could muster. “Anna will harass you, so I’m warning you. But … I just don’t want to say goodbye to you yet.” I smiled shyly up at him, knowing I had stolen his line from earlier.