Page 111 of The Midnight Frequency

I’d barely gotten a chance to read the first page when Silas reached over to turn down the music.

“Oh, no. It’s okay. I can read with music on, or the TV playing, while having a conversation with Tess. I’m a multitasking reader.”

“Read it aloud.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

“You hate romance.”

“Humor me.”

I was suddenly thankful for the year during college when I’d worked as an elderly companion for a hard-of-hearing woman in her late eighties who had a thing for steamy books—the dirtier, the better. I had hundreds of hours of practice reading romance books aloud.

I figured if I just focused enough, I could pretend that was what I was doing.

“Maggie,” Silas cut me off.

“What?”

“You’re yelling,” he said, shooting me a warm smile.

“Sorry. Old habits. I used to read to the elderly. Let’s try this again.”

I fell into the rhythm and got lost in the story. I had no idea if Silas was actually paying attention for the longest time, until the heroine snarked at the grumpy hero, dragging a little snicker out of Silas.

“They are always curmudgeonly, are they not?” he asked.

“The heroes? I suppose. Especially in historical romances. Grumpy, powerful, and bonus points if he’s some sort of highlander with different customs from the well-bred, somewhat snooty heroine so they can constantly clash over the issue.”

“There’s not much romance,” he observed.

“Well, it’s a forced marriage trope. There’s usually a lot of build-up first. There’s the forced proximity of being married. And then the spark of mutual attraction that makes the two of them start to connect more than fight. Then the love happens. It’s the last third of the book, usually. And the heroine almost certainly needs to be kidnapped or nearly die of an illness for the dense hero to finally come to accept his feelings.”

“Very specific rules.”

“All book genres follow rules.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. Just observing. It’s well-written.”

“It is. I have to thank Grum for this one. I think I’m going to rest my voice for a while, though.”

It was totally not a chicken move on my part because they’d finally gone through with the wedding and were almost certainly going to consummate the deal in the next chapter.

“Rest your voice,” Silas repeated. I dug around in my bag to find the bottle of green tea I’d brought, twisting the cap open and taking a long sip. Which I nearly choked on when he added, “Or are you afraid to read the sex scenes out loud?”

“What?” I asked between coughs. “No.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

He stopped at a red light, glanced over, holding my gaze, and said in a sexy little rumbling voice, “Then prove it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

[ “WE SPEND YEARS building walls and call it protection. Then someone walks in through the open door without knocking.”

— Witching Hour - Episode 61]