Page 36 of One Night with Number Nineteen

The hint of challenge in his words has my chin lifting. “What’s wrong with my desk?”

He turns and strolls over to it, studying it as though it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

I follow him over, trying to see what he sees.

It’s chaos, maybe of the organized variety if I’m being generous—several notebooks open and stacked on top of each other, covered with notes on characters or scenes I’m envisioning or snippets of dialogue that I hear, scraps of paper with random ideas that pop into my head. Eventually they’ll make it over to the bulletin board on the other side of the room, but for now they’re just accumulating on my desktop. Three cups are shoved haphazardly to the side—three because I need water and iced tea and my smoothie (I try to sneak in my fruits, veggies, and fiber any way I can). Pens are everywhere, along with sticky notes and random drawings and craft projects that Ollie’s made at preschool. A nail file and lip balm, a tiny 3D printed version of my most popular book and a picture of Faye, Ollie, and me are dotted around, along with balled-up silver gum wrappers.

“I know where everything is,” I say defensively.

And I do.

Or mostly everything.

His eyes dance as he leans back against the wooden surface. “I’m sure you do.”

I scowl at him. “I’m not sure it’s any of your business what my desk looks like.”

His mouth curves further. “Oh, it’s absolutely not. I just think it’s hilarious that a woman who regularly dusts the ornaments on her Christmas tree and has not a single item out of place⁠—”

“Tell that to Ollie,” I grumble.

“—has a desk that looks like that,” he finishes on a chuckle.

“You know what’s hilarious,” I say, stepping closer and poking him lightly in the chest, “a man who looks like you driving a minivan.”

Something creeps into the edges of his gaze, something I can’t read. But he just shrugs and captures my hand, his fingers running lightly over the inside of my wrist. “I like the roomy interior.”

I snort. “Okay, so maybe I can understand that.”

Light in his eyes instead of the darkness from before.

“But how about you explain why you slept inside that roomy interior last night?”

The light fades and the edginess returns. “Does it bother you?”

Disbelief bubbles up in my chest. “Uh, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you slept in your car in front of my house.”

“Van.” A shrug. “And there’s plenty of room, remember?”

Temper beginning to fray, I open my mouth.

But I don’t get anything out.

Because his next words take my breath away. “You were worried, and I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

Yet another shrug. “I’m a nice guy.”

“You are…but—” I break off, shake my head.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I say. “We should get out there. I promised Ollie we’d go to Molly’s for pancakes.”