by Zoe Chant
"Off a shelf in the guest bedroom."
"I assumed you didn't ..." She hesitated.
"Read?"
"No ... no, I just—I didn't think this is the kind of thing you'd pick up for light pleasure reading."
"Well," he said, embarrassed, looking down at his coffee cup, "I didn't have anything else to do, and I was bored, so—"
This was still coming out all wrong. All he had to do, what anyone in his right mind would do, was slip in a smooth comment about how he read this kind of thing all the time. He could tell her he'd gotten tongue-tied earlier and given her the wrong impression—
—and then she'd ask him all kinds of questions about his favorite books, and he'd have to make stuff up and lie to her. Where they should be having a warm, casual conversation, instead it would be stilted and difficult.
What kind of relationship could they build on a bedrock of lies? He could pretend to be good at the things she was good at, but in the end she'd call his bluff and everything would come tumbling down.
Better to get the painful part out of the way in the beginning.
"See, the thing is," he said to his coffee cup, "it's not that I don't like to read. I do. I'm just not good at it."
"What do you mean?" Melody asked quietly.
He risked a quick glance up at her. She wasn't looking at him with condemnation or dislike. Her face was open, gray eyes curious and interested ... the way she might look at a book, he thought, a book she was trying to read, as if she had to puzzle through them the way he did.
"I don't have much education," he explained. "I was working on my GED in prison, but—books like that one ..." He gestured at the book in her hands. "The words just kind of all mix up together. There's too many of them, and too many big ones that are hard for me to figure out. I do like books. I'd like to learn to read better than I do. When I was driving into town—"
He stopped. It was harder to say than he'd expected. Like ripping a part of his soul open, exposing himself to ridicule or worse.
"Yes?" Melody prompted gently, leaning forward. She reached out hesitantly. Her fingertips danced along the end of his hand, making his breath catch.
"I saw your bookstore," he admitted. "I didn't know it was yours, then. But I remember how I saw it and I ... I wished I could go in. It looked magic to me. Like a whole other world, so different from—" He stopped again, remembering how she'd reacted the last time he mentioned prison. But it had been his entire life for the last three years. It wasn't like he could just pretend that part of his life didn't exist.
"Like prison?" she asked softly, as if she'd read his mind.
"Yeah. I wanted to go into that world, but I felt like I didn't belong."
"I could show you," she said, very gently. Her fingers curled over the edge of his palm.
He turned his hand over, and she cautiously, uncertainly, placed her fingers in his rough, callused palm. Soft hands. Girl's hands. But not without calluses, he saw now, up close. She had a little callus on the middle finger of her right hand, from writing, and the tips of her fingers were faintly darkened, as if all that reading had left printer's ink permanently embedded in her fingertips.
"I really would like that," he said. "Maybe you could find me some books to read? Ones that aren't too hard, or too boring? Uh. I don't mean your books are boring. Just—"
He was cut off by the quick clasp of her hand on his. "Gunnar," she began, her voice warm.
Then she stopped, and they both looked up, at the sound of low voices and footsteps swishing through the dew-damp grass. Derek and Keegan were approaching from the direction of the barn. Derek had a shotgun slung casually over his shoulder; Keegan was wearing his shoulder holster and had leaves in his hair. Gunnar guessed they'd been checking the perimeter.
Melody's fingers slithered out of his and she sat back on her seat, reaching for her coffee cup. His hand felt bereft without her. His body yearned after her like a flower turning toward the sun.
"Funny how every time I turn around, seems like I find you with my sister," Keegan said to Gunnar. It was, Gunnar thought, not precisely hostile so much as wary, shading toward mild amusement.
"Funny how you think it's any of your business who I talk to," Melody said dryly. "Since I'm a grown woman. And that's not all I am, as you well know."
Gunnar was aware of the stirring of her dragon, the defensive rustling of its wings. He yearned to see it in all its glory, not these half-glimpses at the corner of his mind's eye.
"True," Keegan said with a half smile, not at all defensive. "I'm not here to break up the party, on purpose anyway, but we didn't get this guy out of prison just for coffee on the deck. Sorenson, I need to sit you down inside and start working on figuring out your brother's movements since he escaped. Old acquaintances, safehouses, anything you know that might help."
Gunnar nodded.
"After that—" Keegan began.
"After that," Melody said, "I was going to take him to the bookstore with me."
Gunnar had a feeling that he didn't look any less surprised than the other two men. Keegan gave both of them a long, searching look. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"I certainly don't plan to sit around the house all day," Melody said defensively. "He was interested in seeing the bookstore, so I figured I could take him to work with me."
"That's a terrible idea," Derek said flatly.
"Why?" Melody asked, looking from her brother to his friend, who was glowering at Gunnar. "Is it him you don't trust, or me? Or don't you think my dragon could keep him in line?"
Keegan cleared his throat loudly and pointedly. "We'll be inside. See you in a minute?" he asked Gunnar, who nodded.
After Derek and Keegan went into the house, Derek with a last glare over his shoulder, Gunnar said quietly, "Do you want to tell them?"
"About what?" Melody started to toy with the gold chain around her neck, then made a visible effort to stop, dropping her hand to her coffee cup.
"Us."
"You really think they'd react better if they knew you're my mate?"
"Well, at least that way they'd know why it was no use keeping us apart," Gunnar said—reasonably, he thought, but Melody looked down at her coffee cup.
"You should go help my brother," she said. "It's what you're here for, after all."
Things had been going so well, and now he felt like he'd ruined it again. At least this time it wasn't entirely on him; her family certainly wasn't helping. Like he could blame them, but still.
"You meant it, though?" he asked hopefully. "About taking me to the bookstore?"
Melody darted a quick look at him from under her lashes, behind the lenses of her glasses. "I meant it. As soon as you and my brother are done, we'll drive into town and you can help me open the bookstore." And her coral-pink lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
We. Just the two of them.
"I can't wait," he said, and he'd never meant anything so fervently in his life.
Chapter Eight: Melody
Watching Gunnar in the bookstore was all she'd hoped for and more.
She'd had her doubts as she drove him there in her sporty little Miata (trying very hard not to think about his proximity, or her desire to reach over and put a hand on his leg). There were so many ways this could go wrong. She knew right down to her bones that he wouldn't hurt her, could never hurt her. But he might be bored. He might hate it. This might drive a deeper wedge between them, rather than bringing them together.
But as soon as she unlocked the door and they walked inside, she saw the look of wonder unfold across his face and knew that she'd made the right choice.
For the first half-hour or so, she let him roam the store while she rummaged around getting set up for the day. This was Jimmy's day off, so it was just the two of them. It looked like the weather was going to be nice, so she set out some tables of cheap paperbacks on the sidewalk in front of the store, got the café set up, and rearranged her window display before she went looking f
or Gunnar.
She found him in the kids' book section. He was sitting on the floor with a book open in his lap, and he looked entranced.
She didn't want to disturb him, though she tried to turn her head to see what book he was reading. She couldn't quite make out the title or cover. She turned her head more, twisting to the side—
Gunnar looked up, and jumped.
"Sorry!" Melody said, jerking back and knocking her elbow into a bookshelf.
Gunnar grinned. "Now I guess we're even. Maybe you need a bell, too."
"Maybe we both need to stop sneaking around," she admitted, and gestured to the book. "What are you reading? You looked like you were really into it."
His smile dropped away. "It's just a kid's book. Not like the kind of thing you read."
"I read all kinds of books." She crouched down to his level. "Just because it isn't full of hundred-dollar words doesn't mean it's not a good book. I haven't read every book in this store, but not for lack of trying."
This coaxed a small smile out of him. He turned the book over so she could see the cover: The Story of Ferdinand.
"Oh, this is a wonderful book," she said, smiling back. "I love this book. I gave a copy of it to Gaby for Sandy. Do you like it?"
"Yeah, I do." His hesitant smile turned into a full grin. "It's about a bull who doesn't want to fight like bulls are supposed to. I mean, he can fight, it's not like he can't, but he doesn't want to, even when the other bulls make fun of him for it. I like that he sticks to his guns and doesn't let them make him be what he doesn't want to be."
His gaze dropped back to the book, and Melody laid her hand on his arm. He was still wearing the poorly fitting brown suit over a gray T-shirt with a truck stop logo that he must have borrowed from Derek. He was turning the book over restlessly in his hands—big hands, deft hands, the fingers broad but sure.
Is that what you were like? she wondered. A gentle child, who didn't want to fight? But everyone could only see what you were like on the outside, big and intimidating and scary, until they made you be what they said you always were.
"I think it's a good message," she said gently. "I wish more people were like Ferdinand the bull. Do you want to keep it?"
Gunnar looked up at her sharply. "You don't have to give me books. You're trying to run a business here."
"I want to give you books," she said firmly. "And I think that's a good one to start with. It can be the heart of—" She stopped. He's not a dragon. Normal people don't work like we do. "It'll be a good book to build a library around," she said instead.
"I don't have a library." He gave a soft laugh. "First I'd need a house to put one in, anyway."
"One thing at a time. I can't help with the house, but I can help with the library. And ..." His arm was warm and strong under her fingers. She tightened her grip. "I owe you an apology, Gunnar. I've been a snob."
Gunnar frowned, his blue eyes puzzled. "No you haven't. You've been great."
"No, don't let me off the hook for it. I misjudged you, just based on the kinds of books you read. I'm sorry for judging you, and I ... I wanted to ask you something personal, if you don't mind. Away from the house, where the others can't hear."
"Sure." He didn't look defensive, just curious. "You can ask me anything."
"Have you ever been tested for dyslexia?"
He shook his head. "What's that?"
"You really haven't heard of it?" Melody asked, surprised.
"I guess it sounds a little familiar."
"But nobody ever gave you a test, or talked to you about it in school?"
He shook his head.
"Have you always had trouble reading?"
"It was hard to learn," he said. "Really hard. But I thought it was just because I was slow. That's what Nils said, anyway."
She hoped Nils did show up. She'd like to punch him in the face. "But the words get mixed up sometimes? People tell you that you're writing letters backwards, even though they look fine to you, or you just can't understand them when you look at them?"
Gunnar's face lit up. "Yes!" he said. "That's exactly what it's like!"
"I guess I shouldn't say for sure without having you tested for it, but that sounds like dyslexia to me. It's a learning disorder, a pretty common one. Lots of people have it. It doesn't have anything to do with intelligence, and it certainly doesn't mean you're slow. It just means that your brain processes letters and sounds differently than most people's."
"They get mixed up," he said cautiously, eyes on her face.
"Yes, kind of. I mean, if you think about it, reading is terribly complicated. You have to connect letters to sounds, and sounds to words, and words to their meanings, and then you have to put together all of those to build a word-picture in your head of what's happening in the book. And all of this is going on lightning-fast inside your brain whenever you read a page of text. It's no wonder that sometimes the wires get crossed."
Tentatively, he asked, "Do you have that problem?"
She wished, for a fleeting instant, that she could tell him they did have that in common, but it wasn't going to be quite that easy. "No, not me. But my mom does. It took her forever to learn how to read. We thought I might have trouble too, because it often runs in families, so she had me tested early. But it was never a problem for me; I took to reading like a duck to water."
"And ... what about your mom?"
"What about her?"
"Did she learn how?" Gunnar asked. The hope on his face was painful to see.
"Yes. I think she still struggles a little, but you'd never know. She has a Master's degree."
"So I could learn," he breathed. "I could get good at it."
"I'm sure you could. There are teaching methods now to help children with dyslexia. I can't believe no one ever talked to you about it."
He shook his head. "No, I guess I was always better at outdoors stuff, like sports, and everyone said I wasn't trying hard enough at the learning part of it. But I did try."
Melody spontaneously put her hands over his, suddenly and passionately furious at all those adults who had failed him, at his brother who had failed him, and made him think he was never good at something he could have been good at. Could still be good at. "It wasn't your fault. We can do something about this, Gunnar. We'll look up resources online, and I can call my mom and see what she says about it. And in the meantime, if you find books that look interesting and are easy for you to read, I don't care if they're children's books, okay? If you like them, then I'll help you find more. And don't even feel like you have to read if you don't want to, or force yourself if you don't enjoy it. It's okay for you to not want to. It's okay ..."
She ran down in a flood of babble, and stared down at their linked hands, curled on top of the book.
"Thank you," Gunnar said quietly.
Melody risked a glance up at him. He was looking at her in a warm, soft, besotted way that she didn't think she deserved.
"You don't owe me thanks," she said. "I'm the one that should be thanking you, for ... for making me think about things in a different way." She took a deep breath, pushing herself past her hesitation. "There's something I want to show you, something no one else has seen. Would you like to see it?"
He nodded.
Melody scrambled to her feet. Still clutching The Story of Ferdinand, Gunnar followed her to the front of the store and then stopped when she flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED and threw the lock home.
"You know what I am," she said, turning around to look up into his eyes. "Just like I know what you are."
He nodded without speaking.
"What do you know about dragons?"
Gunnar shook his head. "I ... I didn't even know they were real 'til the first time I looked into your eyes. Which I guess sounds silly, coming from a bear shifter, but ..."
"No, it's not. We take care to hide ourselves, even from other shifters. And we're not quite like other shifters, not in all ways. We have special abilities. Special weaknesse
s." She had to stop herself from brushing her fingertips across the locket with its hidden, shameful secret. "And some of the old stories about us are true. We keep hoards."
Gunnar grinned, flashing his white teeth and making her knees wobble unexpectedly. "Are you telling me you manage a bookstore for a living when you have a stash of gold somewhere?"
"I do not hoard gold," she said primly. "What use have I for gold? Look around, and you'll see my hoard."
He looked around, and she could see the comprehension dawning on his face—on several levels.
"Oh," he said. "Oh. That's why ... when I said ..." He looked back at her, his blue eyes troubled. "Melody, when I said what I said about books, earlier—I had no idea. I knew you liked them, but I didn't know what they really meant to you."
"I know," she said gently.
She took his hand, heart beating fast as her fingers wrapped around his. The feeling reminded her of the first time she'd managed to bring herself to fly. During most of her childhood she'd been terrified of trying out her fledgling wings, despite her mother pushing her to take her first true flight. Finally she'd worked up the nerve to climb to the roof. She still remembered clinging up there on a dark night in midwinter—as dark as the city got, anyway—with her claws sunk into the shingles, scared out of her wits and yet excited. She remembered what it felt like to jump that first time, the weightless moment when her stomach lifted into her throat before her wings caught her and, for the first time in her life, she soared.
"Gunnar, I want to show you something no one else has ever seen. I want to show you the Heart of my hoard."
Chapter Nine: Gunnar
After Melody locked the door, she kept hold of Gunnar's hand and led him through the aisles between the bookcases, to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. She paused briefly before opening it.
Gunnar hardly even cared where they were going. She could have led him anywhere. Her fingers were petal-soft in his.
In his other hand, he carefully held the book she'd given him, the one about the bull who was told to be cruel, but decided to be kind instead, even though it went against what everyone said his nature was supposed to be.