Page 42 of Library or Lattes?

“Ditto,” I replied, nodding at him.

He laughed. “This? My gran bought me this sweater. It’s from London,” he said with emphasis.

“Oh yeah? Maybe that’s why I like it.”

He closed his books and looked at me. Magnified by his glasses, his eyes today were this light, ice blue that stood out a mile against the contrast of his dark hair. “So, Doc. This course of yours? Do you want some proper help with your essay?”

My heart raced. “Depends who’s offering …”

“An American boy who spends whole days trying to describe buildings in words for his architecture portfolio … and was maybe kind of a jerk when we first met …”

I couldn’t believe it. Was Theo … apologizing?

“Oh my God, do you know him? But I would say less jerk, more … total asshole? Like I knew he obviously wasn’t from Oak Falls because nobody here would ever act like that …”

Theo laughed and shook his hair from his eyes. “I was just really mad about being here …”

“Architecture portfolio?” I raised an eyebrow. Intrigued.

He sighed. “Architecture. That’s the plan …”

“Impressive.”

“Says Ms. London School of Journalism.” His laugh was an exhale.

I took a sip of my coffee, thinking about what to say. Even though it was obvious something had changed last night, I wasn’t sure it would last. But things felt charged somehow. Like we’d broken some kind of invisible barrier between us.

“Is that an actual apology?” It was hard not to smile, but I was trying to be unreadable.

Theo bit his lip, like he was deciding what to do with his mouth. So sexy. Then my whole abdomen betrayed me, by aching with a longing I don’t think I’d ever felt.

“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far, Doc. It’s more like a justification for some ill-timed rage.”

“It’s fine, I get it. I’d be pissed too if I was supposed to be in London and was sent here. But yes, I will accept your offer of help. Please and thank you.”

Theo wiped his brow in mock relief. “Why don’t you sit here?” He patted the seat beside him. “It might be easier for us to talk quietly if you don’t have to use your big loud Oak Falls whisper across the table.”

“I do not have a loud whisper,” I whispered. Loudly. Then I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing. I got up and moved my books over so we were sitting right beside each other. The smell of his cologne, again. Fresh, outdoorsy mountain air. It made me want to lean into him. But I resisted.

“Okay, it’s actually your lucky day, Willa Taylor, because not only have I been working on my portfolio essays, but I also won a creative writing competition at school when I was seven.”

I tried to stifle my laugh. “When you were seven?”

“Excuse me, but did you win a prestigious creative writing prize when you were seven?” His eyes twinkled. “No. I thought not. So listen up.”

And I did listen. And he listened to me. But we mostly talked about other things—family, friends, hopes, dreams—with a tiny bit of writing.

We sat so close, legs touching, shoulders pressed together, as he read through the embarrassingly rough draft of my essay on the screen, making notes in the margins. He didn’t laugh or make sarcastic comments. Not once. Then he stopped reading and looked at my face. Really looked at it, and this time, I enjoyed the intensity.

“You know … there’s lots of rain in London. And gray skies, lots of gray skies,” he said as seductively as someone could talk about the weather. “Would you like to know the origins of rain? Because I know a lot about it …”

“This doesn’t surprise me,” I replied, my skin tingling.

“So you’ll have to bring an umbrella and get a proper raincoat. Those cute coats you wear won’t cut it in London.”

“Oh, really?” I asked. Trying not to let my face show how much I liked hearing that my coats were cute.

“Really,” he assured me.