By the Book

This story was written for the 750 Word Project 2024, below this line are exactly 750 words:

Her hand was soft and warm in mine as we walked through the Burnside Street door. The wonderful scent of used books filled me, and I saw the same pause and smile on her face. Yes, this was a good choice for a first date.

"Count fifty, then come find me," she said, drawing her wavy, dark hair behind her ear. She turned with a skip, heading into the doorway toward the Rose room. I watched the flash of her legs, how she moved in the sundress. How did I never notice how nice her legs were? Probably because we spent most of our relationship, until the last two hours, in a classroom. Talking, teasing, joking, and quoting...everything. Movies, books, plays, poems. It was how we flirted. She had a boyfriend, and that made it easier. Sweetly painful, but easier. Then she didn't, and there we were, an after dinner game of tag in Powell's City of Books--all three stories, nine rooms, and almost two acres to play in.

Fifty.

Through the doorway was the mezzanine. An open walkway, with stairs going up to the Purple room, or down to the Rose. Further down, other stairs up and down, to other sections, and two doors back into the Blue or Yellow rooms. For the first time ever, I was cursing how large Powell's was.

Down to the Rose room, to Oceanography? That was where we met. To the Blue room for poetry, or literature, or theater? Any would fit our conversations. I looked at a map, and made a completely emotional, and probably doomed guess.

I walked between the shelves, ten-foot tall bastions of wonder made from beautiful golden wood. The books called to me. "Just a quick look," they called. "Oh, here's a new one!" But the memory of dark blue eyes and a soft smile kept me questing.

There she was, under a sign that read "Romance." My heart danced at that thought. She grinned and slipped around a corner. I followed.

She was pressed against the wall in one of the few dead ends. I reached out and touched her hand. "Tag."

She was still smiling as I pressed up against her. She looked up at me, the dark blue of her eyes dancing with humor. "Now what?"

"Let's play a different game."

"Oh! Thomas Crown Affair. Nice one." She put her hand flat against my chest, and I could feel my heart racing against it. I laid my hand on her shoulder, not holding, barely touching.

"Did I ever tell you that I have wanted to run my hands through your hair since the first day you walked into class?"

"No," she whispered, then tilted her head so her loose brown curls fell over my hand. I took it as an invitation, and slid my fingers through her locks. Soft, silky, and the strands clung to my fingers as they passed between. She sighed, and I did it again, starting at her scalp and stroking out. Her hair smelled of summer.

I lifted her chin up to look at me. I had played this part in my mind, but went off script. Rather than bending to kiss her, I stroked my thumb over her lower lip. She opened her mouth slightly, so I did it again. On the third pass, she bit, holding my thumb with her teeth.

"Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?" I whispered.

Her smile widened, releasing me. "I do bite my thumb at you, sir."

"Do you bite your thumb at me?"

"Is the law on my side, if I say, 'aye?'"

"No."

"Then I don't bite my thumb at you, but I do bite my thumb." She glanced theatrically up at the shelves surrounding us. "You kiss by the book."

"You're right," I said, "that would have been a much better scene to choose."

Her mouth was already open when I pressed my lips to hers, and she opened ours further. Her arms wrapped around my neck as our tongues met, dancing, and I felt like the floor was shaking under my feet. Every touch of her was sun against my skin, and I basked in the heat. My hand, still buried in her hair, slid to the back of her head, drawing her closer, deepening the kiss. My other hand was at her waist, pulling her against me, and she sighed against my mouth, my chest. She tasted like spring, like a promise.