9. Brinlee

9

The way Sawyer's face lights up when he sees me makes me smile. Makes me decide it wasn't a mistake, coming to this meeting.

Yet, an instant later, his face tightens into a frown and he looks away, stammering something to the librarian about being late, and sits down as the librarian departs, his shoulders tense.

He looks good, though. God, he always looks good. His handsome face is striking, with those large eyes and the dark hair framing it. It's longer than other times, curling at his ears and neck. And I love the way he moves. He isn't muscular like some betas or alphas, but he's packing a lot of energy in that slender frame.

The way his shirt clings to his upper arms and shoulders is distracting. He's so masculine, and yet so… fine. Beautiful. Like an exotic creature, like an elf.

Be serious, I tell myself. He's not an exotic pet for you to goggle at. And he can't be anything to you.

Not as things stand.

Even if he doesn't have a pack. Which is improbable, but you never know. He doesn't look much older than twenty. He may not want to rush into a serious relationship.

And why am I thinking about Sawyer and packs?

"So let's talk about fantasy romance," he says, his warm voice washing over me, gripping me like a hand, grounding me, mesmerizing me. "It was one of the topics requested by you. By the way, welcome new people."

He doesn't glance at me this time.

What am I even doing here? I had a break between the hospital and work and decided to pop by.

Yeah, as if you didn't make a note of the date, time and place because he would be there.

As if I have time for this.

As if I can afford to… hope.

Sudden panic grips me. I get up. "I…"

"Brinlee." His smile is warm. No, hot. Devastating. He has no right to be so handsome. "Is everything okay?"

"I should go," I whisper.

"Please, stay." He swallows, and my gaze is caught at the knot bobbing in his throat. Such a male thing, so strangely sexy, along with the faint shadow of his stubble along his jaw and his strong shoulders.

I sit back down.

"A spell," I whisper.

"Spells are a typical element of fantasy romance," he says smoothly, though his eyes narrow. "A spell, or a curse. What's your favorite fantasy romance?"

"I… it's…" I shake my head and huff, fighting a smile. "I actually love an old one, the Il-made Mute."

"Is it about the Fae?"

"… it is about the Fae, yes." I nod.

"And does it involve any spells or curses?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

He grins at me and it's like a punch to the gut, the force of that grin, the joy sparkling in his eyes. "I'll add it to my list."

Then he starts asking everyone their favorites, getting a lively discussion going about the subtypes, and I'm left gawking at him. He makes it seem so effortless. Talking with people. Smiling at them.

Is that why I'm hooked on him? Because he's so sociable and nice?

Is he… is he that way with everyone, when I thought… when I thought he might like that only with me?

Oh God, how embarrassing. The thought twists in my gut like a knife, but getting up again to go as he talks might be even worse. I mean, this is pure indulgence, being here. I shouldn't have come in the first place.

Then someone—a beta girl, I think—asks him, "And you, Sawyer? What's your favorite fantasy romance?"

"I, um." He chuckles. "I love a series called Hunted Fae."

My breath catches. It's the series I had been checking out at his café.

"And why?"

"Because they choose one another," he whispers, his gaze going distant. "Their origin doesn't matter, how rich or poor their parents are. No arranged marriages. No obligations. They choose one another."

There's so much emotion in his voice, and it touches me deeply, so much so that tears prickle my eyes. Wouldn't that be nice? To choose your family? To fall in love and then go on and live with those you fell in love with?

But I can never do that. Given the prognosis, I don't think I'll ever be free to let myself feel, let alone choose. Even if I found people who would look beyond my debts and my circumstances, I could never be a burden, and I'd never abandon Tyson. I'm all he has.

So that's that.

The moment Sawyer declares the meeting adjourned, I shoot to my feet, grab my backpack and rush out of the room.

Oh God, what was I thinking? I should never have come here. I should avoid the Book Café, too. Watching him, listening to him speak was marvelous. Soothing. Exciting. All the good stuff. I feel like I got to know him a little bit better, that I glimpsed inside his head, saw what he likes, what he wishes for. I like what I saw. I like it a lot.

And it gave me a false sense of intimacy and closeness, which is the last thing I need right now with someone I'll never be close and intimate with.

"Stop with this pity party," I whisper to myself as I hurry through the library entrance hall. "You'd be annoyed if someone else was feeling sorry for themselves, so don't do it."

Life is what it is.

Accept it.

But as I approach the revolving doors, I hear someone calling my name, and to my surprise, it's Sawyer.

"Hey! Brinlee! Wait!"

So I wait, my heart in my throat, sudden hope choking me. "Yes?"

He approaches me. "Are you okay?"

Oh. Of course that's what he wanted to ask. I have to look terrible. "Yeah, I'm fine. That was a good meeting."

"It was a mess." He chuckles, runs a hand through his dark hair. His eyes are a beautiful shade of honey-green, and the light slanting through the library's glass front makes them sparkle with colors. "I didn't prepare enough. In fact, I had totally forgotten all about it. Almost missed the meeting I organized."

"You don't hold these meetings every week?"

"Oh, hell no. I attend them, as much as I can. But it's Jared who usually organizes them."

I nod, no idea who Jared is. It's all kind of white noise, but one thing sinks in: Sawyer is usually here every week. I've been coming to the library often enough—my safe place to rest my mind—and he's been in that little room every week.

"I have to go," I say again, faintly.

"Wait."

"What?"

"Have a coffee with me?"

And hope is back, more dangerous than ever. So I shake my head, murdering it. "I have to get to work. Sorry."

"Another time, then!" he calls out as I push the revolving doors and almost trip over my feet. "Please?"

This man doesn't accept defeat. He sounds as if he's hoping for something, too. As if it matters to him. But by the time I am outside and I finally gather the courage to turn around, he's gone.