What The Heart Learns

by Gadziala, Jessica

Clearly, he had screwed up.

  But how, he wasn't sure.

  At least he'd gotten her to agree to breakfast across a table from him.

  Maybe he could finally get some answers.

  EIGHT

  Riley

  She really shouldn't have agreed to breakfast.

  Breakfast meant sitting across the table from him and having a conversation. A conversation that could go in any direction, that could - little by little - expose her.

  And she wasn't ready for that yet.

  For him to know why she was there.

  For him to see her that way.

  She should have simply told him she needed to get back to her laptop to do some work, get her car back from the fruit orchard, that she had an important phone call scheduled. Anything to get her out of the meal.

  But she'd woken up feeling in pain, sluggish, and incredibly thankful that someone had been there for her when she clearly couldn't be there for herself.

  Yes, she blamed Maude.

  But more so, she blamed herself.

  She wasn't a big drinker.

  She should have turned down the refills more forcefully, should have refused to drink them.

  But she hadn't.

  She'd kept sipping and hoping it would take the edge off the sexual frustration she'd been feeling.

  Sure, she hadn't exactly expected the punch to be as strong as it was. It had snuck up on her the way it did if you had too many glasses of wine in the bathtub, getting out feeling just peachy, so you have another glass, and the next thing you know, you're sprawled out on the floor praying for the spinning to stop.

  That was what Maude's punch had done to her.

  Came up from behind and whacked her upside the head.

  Hell, parts of the evening were blurry around the edges, losing whole chunks of time to a vodka/rum/tequila abyss.

  But she'd been very aware of her absolute aloneness and dependency on Liam - this man she had been nothing but snippy toward. And he had stepped up, gotten her out of there, gotten fluids, pain medicine, and coffee in her, and put her to bed. In his bed.

  He'd been a real standup guy to a real fall-down girl.

  So she was grateful.

  And having been given the chance to move around his place while he showered - the scent of his spicy body wash wafting out with the steam through the gap under the door, something she noticed with a bit too much delight, she felt like she'd gotten to know him a little better - this man who lived in books.

  He did, too, since she'd had to go up into his cupboards to find the sugar to have a refill on her coffee, and realized he had an entire shelf at the top weighed down with paperbacks.

  They were everywhere in his average-sized apartment behind his bookstore.

  Books.

  No TV.

  A radio.

  No magazines or newspapers.

  There was his bookmark collection pointing to travels, a framed image of him and his brother out front the garage back when they couldn't have been more than seven and eight, both in overalls, Eric's dirty, what looked like a bloodstain coming through his knee, Liam with a book stuffed in the chest pocket.

  There were worksheets on the dining table, orders for new books, tea from a place in town, and one for the desserts with little notes in the margins about which ones he'd liked best or had sold best, nice little encouraging things to compliment his sister-in-law.

  She felt a little more connected to him, getting to see a bit of his human side more.

  And as she slathered on his body wash with a small little suppressed groan, she had to admit - at least to herself - that a part of her was excited over the prospect of getting to have breakfast with him, talk with him.

  Because the talk at the bar, before it got too personal, had been one of the best conversations she'd had in years.

  She would just have to work to try to make sure things stayed book-related, casual. Even if a part of her suspected that his motivations were the complete opposite.

  She would steer the conversation.

  Or stuff food into her mouth until she could come up with a convincing lie.

  Admittedly, she wasn't great with the lying thing. That had never been a muscle she had needed to stretch and strengthen. She liked living her life truthfully. First, because she had learned long ago to be unapologetically who she was. Second, it sounded complicated to try to keep all your lies straight once you started telling them. She didn't have the headspace for that kind of thing.

  But she needed to tread carefully with Liam O'reilly if she still wanted things to go to plan. Another week, then she could tell him it all. Maybe. If things went in her favor.

  "Hey," she called through the closed door, waiting for his mumbled response. "Do you have a tee I can borrow?"

  She was okay wearing jeans more than once without a wash - who wasn't? - but she eyed her dirty, dried-sweaty shirt from the day before with a lip curl. She rolled her panties and bra up in the tee, deciding to stuff them into her purse, hoping that whatever tee Liam gave her was in a darker color and that the air wasn't on too high in the diner lest everyone know she was going braless.

  "Here," his voice called, two knuckles hitting the door once until she ducked behind it, cracked it open, and thrust her hand out.

  "Thanks."

  He said nothing, this man of few words, and she threw on the dark heathered gray shirt with a faded town emblem on it, something that made her smile when she looked at her reflection, wondering if she could find one for herself somewhere in town before she had to leave, go back to her old life.

  After finger-combing her hair and cleaning her glasses, she figured it was as good as it was going to get, and moved back out into the main room.

  Liam was standing with his back against his kitchen counter, a paperback open with one hand, gaze fully glued to the pages.

  She felt a fluttery sensation in her stomach at the sight, at the perfectness of it, at the rarity of it even. She didn't know as many men who read as she did women, and certainly not as many who were voracious about it. And even fewer that looked like a living, breathing god while they did it.

  It was a look a woman could get used to, a little voice in the back of her mind suggested, making her shake her head, trying to dislodge it, keep it from taking root.

  She didn't need crazy little ideas like that swarming around her head.

  "You ready?" he asked after finishing the short page before another chapter, slipping a napkin in between the pages before settling it down on top of the coffee maker, his gaze moving over her slowly, pausing for the barest of seconds at her chest, like he knew - though she was pretty sure that was impossible - that she had no bra on.

  "Yep. People to see, half the menu to order..."

  With that, the two of them wordlessly made their way back through the bookstore, Riley absentmindedly noticing he had cleaned up her coffee mug - as well as the coffee station - from the night before, everything ready for a new workday.

  She felt a stab of insecurity stepping outside the bookstore onto the sidewalk of a town that bustled early, everyone moving around with too many smiles, too much energy for such an early hour in the day.

  It looked like she'd spent the night with Liam. And not in the innocent 'he let me sleep off my drunk at his place' kind of spent the night.

  It shouldn't have mattered, the opinions of these people she would never see again once she hit the road in another week or so.

  But she found it did, ducking her head a bit as Liam stepped outside, flipping a closed sign on the door since he was usually open at that hour, then looking down at her.

  "Problem?"

  "Everyone is going to think I spent the night."

  "You did," he told her, shrugging.

  "You know what I mean."

  "You really care what people think?"

  "You don't?"

  "Can't say it would be a hardship for me that these people think you spent the night in a less than innocent
way, Riley."

  Damn him, the words shivered over her body.

  "Come on. Let's just go," she declared, taking off across the street without checking - something she'd never have done in the city, but seemed like everyone did in Stars Landing.

  The diner was busier than usual, seeing as it was breakfast time on a Sunday, making her all too aware how all the heads swiveled over within a moment of her and Liam moving up to the hostess podium, waiting to be seated.

  Her pulse quickened, making her have the uncharacteristic urge to turn and walk away before she added any more kindling to the fire that was small town gossip.

  "Don't be a chickenshit," Liam's voice said right behind her shoulder, tone low, but challenging.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You want to leave," he told her. Not guessed, told. "Don't be a fucking coward."

  "I'm not a coward," she spat back, hackles rising. And maybe that had been his intention.

  "Then prove it," he suggested, making her head turn so she could shoot a murderous look at his cocky face.

  "Just the two of you this morning?" A waitress asked, bouncing up to the podium, eyes bright, ponytail swaying, smile welcoming. The real kind of welcoming, too, not the plastered-on kind you usually saw from people in the service industry. Like she was genuinely glad to see them.

  Whatever this town was smoking to make them so pleasant all the time, Riley suspected she needed a good couple hits off it.

  "Yeah, Jenny. Just the two of us," Liam answered when she simply stood there gawking at the girl who had to have been on her feet for hours already, running around getting things for everyone, but somehow looked no worse for the wear.

  They were shuffled down the rows of curious onlookers to a back booth, handed laminated menus, and told to just holler when they needed her.

  "Holler."

  "What?" Liam asked, brows drawn together.

  "Holler if we need anything. You don't hear holler up north all that much. So what's good?"

  "I wouldn't really know," he admitted, poring over the menu himself.

  "What do you mean you don't know? There are like two places to eat in this town."

  "There are hundreds of places to eat in this town. Like our own homes," he corrected.

  "You cook?"

  "You don't?" he shot back in the same tone.

  "No," she admitted, not embarrassed in the least. "I heat up leftovers or ramen or canned soup, the occasional hormonal urge for freezer pizza and mozzarella sticks, but not actual cooking like where you cut things up and mix them together. And there is no guarantee it is going to come out even remotely palatable. It sounds like a nightmare."

  "Can I get you two something to drink?"

  "Orange juice," Liam demanded.

  "Umm... orange juice too. And a coffee," she said, watching as Liam almost frantically shook his head at her, but she ignored him. "And water."

  "Coming right up."

  "What?" she asked as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.

  "The coffee sucks," he told her simply.

  "Coffee most places suck," she agreed, shrugging. "I can't expect the inn, your bookstore, and the diner to all have amazing, yet very different, coffee. I snooped, you know."

  "Snooped?" he repeated, brows drawn low.

  "In your cupboards and cabinets. Trying to find out what kind of coffee you use since it is the same in your apartment as the store. But you keep it in an unlabeled glass container."

  "It seals better than the bags the coffee comes in."

  "Well, that is one clue at least. It comes in bags. Not tins or plastic jugs."

  "Nope," he agreed.

  "Are you seriously not going to tell me what it is?"

  "I'm seriously not."

  "Why not? It's not like it is some secret family recipe - which I think are absurd too. I mean what if the last remaining relative who knows the secret family recipe dies before sharing it? Then the recipe is gone for eternity? People are so secretive about the silliest things."

  And here she was, a hypocrite, being secretive about who she was, what she did, why she was in Stars Landing in the first place.

  "Come on," she grumbled when his lips stayed pressed shut. "Would you even tell me if I guessed it?"

  "Since we have very finite lifespans and there is an unending amount of new coffee being made each year, I'd say we don't have the time for you to guess. Tell you what. I give you clues to a book. If you can guess it right - the first time - I will tell you what it is."

  "That seems fair. But it has to be a book that is in print. Not some obscure book you came across secondhand that is the only remaining copy in existence."

  "Alright, here you two go," Jenny said, deftly balancing a tray full of drinks with one hand while passing them out with another. "I forgot to ask if you wanted milk or cream, so I brought you a saucer of both. Are you two ready to order?"

  "I'll have the oatmeal and fruit plate," Liam said, making Riley's face scrunch up. Oatmeal was boring. Oatmeal was for home breakfasts. Like cereal. You didn't go to a restaurant with dozens of amazing choices and have oatmeal. "I hope your pen has a lot of ink," he said while she scribbled. "I think you are going to need it for Riley's order."

  He shot her a smirk.

  She shot him a glower.

  "Right. So, I am going to have the two-of-everything platter. With the eggs scrambled. With a side of breakfast potatoes and hashbrowns. Annnnnd... oh, a side serving of French toast too."

  "It comes with pancakes," Liam insisted.

  "And anyone who knows anything about breakfast carbs knows that pancakes aren't French toast. They are two completely different things."

  "If you say so," he said, shaking his head, handing his menu back to the waitress. "Are you really going to be able to eat all that?"

  "Don't underestimate me."

  "You're going to have a heart attack with all that sugar and fat."

  "Oh, but what a way to go. Death by breakfast foods. I can't think of a better eulogy. So, what are my clues?" she asked, going through the motions of making her coffee, only grumbling a little bit when the coffee tasted bitter and burnt.

  "Dystopia."

  "Okay. I like where this is going. My dystopia catalog goes deep."

  "Counting."

  "Vague, but okay."

  "And female author."

  "Ugh. That's a shitty clue. Most dystopias are female authored."

  "Unless it is in the fantasy or space opera type genres."

  Damnit, he was right.

  She had to admit, it was off-putting to find someone who knew more about books than she did. It made her second-guess herself more, feel less assured in her tastes and the depth of her personal reading catalog.

  "How long do I have to think about it?"

  "Until you leave town."

  "Seems fair."

  "No Googling."

  "I'm not a cheater."

  "How am I supposed to know that? You haven't said dick about yourself."

  "Right. And you're an open book?"

  "What do you want to know that you don't already? I have a brother who was the local manwhore until he settled down. He owns the garage. We're close. I own a bookstore that I bought with my college savings. I am particular about coffee. I travel for book conventions. I get dragged into doing town events even if I don't want to because Maude is like a mother figure, and she's hard to say no to. You've even seen my apartment. Compared to you, I am as open as it gets."

  Honestly, that was fair.

  When put that way, she really did know a lot about him. She even knew his book preferences. And the fact that he could cook and was a healthy eater.

  "You know that I like takeaway, don't cook, like to read, live on coffee, and have a bit of a temper."

  "A bit?" he asked, smirking.

  "What else is there to know?"

  "Do you have any family?"

  "I have parents. And a sister."

 
"And they're like..." he prompted, rolling his eyes a bit.

  "They're all very educated. My mother is a professor of fine arts. My father is a private school dean. My sister went to college for business, but is currently on the mommy track."

  "And judging by the way you said they are all very educated, I am going to assume you skipped college?"

  "I skipped across the country the minute I graduated. I took a bunch - and I mean a ton - of night classes on varying subjects, but didn't get a traditional education."

  "And you live in the city now?"

  "Yeah. Alone. I'm not really a people person. Except for the delivery men. Those are my kind of people."

  "The ones who bring you shitty food."

  "Precisely."

  "Here you go, guys," Jenny said, coming back with a tray loaded down with only my food, another waitress coming up to drop Liam's oatmeal and fruit before walking away.

  "Where are you going to put all that?"

  "Luckily, I inherited a great metabolism from my father. My mom and sister aren't so lucky. They swear if they even look at a bagel, they gain two pounds. Me, I have the hollow legs of a fifteen-year-old boy. Oh, God. Is that plain oatmeal?" Riley asked, face scrunched up in horror.

  It was bad enough in her opinion to have maple and brown sugar or apple cinnamon oatmeal. But just plain oats and water? That was something third world country jails threw at prisoners to suck every last bit of enjoyment out of their lives.

  "It's good for you."

  "It's good for your body," she clarified. "This is good for your soul."

  "So what brings you to Stars Landing?" Liam asked, ignoring her comment about her greasy, fat-and-sugar-laden breakfast that could have easily fed a family of four.

  She paused with syrup dripping pancakes on her way to her mouth, wondering how to play it.

  "I like visiting indie bookstores," she told him, using the same half-truth she'd fed to Devon.

  "And yet you've been avoiding it for days."

  "I haven't been avoiding it," she lied, looking down at her plate like cutting up her French toast required her utmost attention.

  "No," he agreed. "You've been avoiding me."

  "I have a bunch of books already to read," she hedged.

  "I bet you've finished all the ones you bought that day."