We were still laughing as we wandered down one of the emptier park paths. Though I was having fun mocking Francesca and Neil’s, uh, enthusiasm for each other, a tiny part of me felt grateful toward them both. If it weren’t for Francesca luring Neil to the book group, James would never have joined either. And today, Francesca and Neil had once again inadvertently brought me and James together.
We talked about Bitter Ironies, weaving on and off of paths and into the Botanic Gardens. Our conversation—as natural and fluid as water—reminded me of the night we’d talked at Art House. And the setting—the sun-splashed afternoon and the blooming flowers—reminded me of our Philippa search around Park Slope. It was like all my best James memories wrapped into one. After being so tense around James for so long, it felt like sweet relief to just let loose and joke around with him. I wasn’t nervous or distracted by my Rosamund schemes anymore. I could just be.
We took a break on a wrought-iron bench in a more secluded spot of the park. Low-hanging, leafy-green branches covered us, so I felt hidden from the rest of the world. James and I kept talking, and our conversation shifted from books to movies to our families to school and, somehow, back to Neil and Francesca.
“So that’s what you meant this morning, when you asked me if I knew about Francesca,” James was saying. “Neil hadn’t called this morning, so I got him to fill me in a little, right before the reading. It kind of makes more sense now, but I still can’t get my mind around the two of them together.”
“Me neither,” I laughed. “And I was there at the start!” Then I told James about Francesca showing up at MeKong.
James studied his hands. “You must have been pretty upset,” he said carefully. Then he lifted his head and fixed his light blue eyes on me. “I mean, because you like Neil. Right?”
Was that why James had called that morning? To find out if I really did like Neil? Suddenly, my heart was racing, as if it suddenly sensed—independently of me—that the talk was veering in a totally different direction.
“I don’t like Neil,” I said softly. “Not in that way.”
“But you asked him out,” James pointed out.
“Yes, but …” I bit my lip. “It wasn’t—I wasn’t … there were other reasons I did it.” I didn’t dare say more.
“For whose benefit?” James murmured, almost to himself.
“What?” I asked, sliding nearer on the bench. I wasn’t sure I’d heard right, and getting closer to James was a nice side effect.
“For whose benefit?” James repeated, louder this time, and looking straight at me.
For whose benefit? Why did that phrase sound so familiar? Where had I heard it before?
And then it hit me.
I hadn’t heard those words.
I’d read them.
In To Catch a Duke.
It was what Lorenzo had said to Rosamund, during that last scene in the park.
I was losing my mind. There was no way James could be quoting from To Catch a Duke. I took a big, calming breath. The fact that he’d chosen the same words was nothing but a coincidence.
Then Francesca’s words from last night sprang into my head: There’s no such thing as a coincidence.
“Why did you say that?” I whispered.
For a second, James looked surprised, but then his mouth curved up in that adorable half-smile that turned my knees to jelly.
“Because, ‘If you love Alberto, I shall surely perish,’” he whispered back.
I really think my heart stopped in that second.
Frightened, I leaped off the bench and started backing away. “How …” I gasped, staring at James in horror. “How—do—you—know—that?”
Was James psychic? Psycho? Both? I held up my hands, wanting to keep him away. I had to escape.
James stood up too and walked toward me. “Norah, please don’t freak. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.” He swallowed and ran a hand through his dark hair. “So I’m right, then? It was To Catch a Duke all along? The stuff you did—with the letter, and the flowers—it was from there?”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. I stopped backing up, though. Before I ran away, I needed an explanation from him.
Finally I managed to ask, “Did—did Audre tell you?”
James shook his head.
“Scott?”
“No.”
“Nobody else knew!” I cried, panicked. “Did you sneak into my house at night and read my journal? You could be arrested for that, you know, and—”
James walked up to me and took my arm, which made me stop hyperventilating. “Norah, listen to me. Nobody told me. I didn’t sneak into your house and read your journal. I read To Catch a Duke. That’s how I guessed what you were doing.”
“When did you read it?” I asked, noticing—in a good way—that James still hadn’t taken his hand off my arm.
“One night in April—the night before Audre’s party, actually.”
The exact same night I’d read it. I don’t believe in destiny, but I still got shivers all down my spine.
“You actually read Irene O’Dell?” I asked, more shocked by that fact than by anything.
James flashed his crooked grin again. “My sister. She’s Irene’s biggest fan. I always tease her about her giant collection of romance novels, and she always says I shouldn’t knock them until I try them.” He shrugged. “So, that one time, I did. Dina had just bought To Catch a Duke that morning, and she left it on the kitchen table after dinner. I stole it and—” His face colored.
I couldn’t help but laugh, surrendering to the surrealness. “You liked it?” Obviously he’d liked it enough to memorize some of the lines.
“I stayed up all night reading it,” James confessed (shivers, part two). “And … I got hooked. I knew the writing was bad and stuff, but it was still pretty interesting. It was kind of like reading Cosmo—getting to see the way a girl thinks.”
“Guys read Cosmo?” This intrigued me.
James nodded, his ears going crimson. “Cosmo, Marie Claire, whatever. We’d never buy them, but, sometimes, if we think no one’s looking, we’ll, like, casually glance into one of them in a drugstore or something.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m giving away all these classified guy secrets.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promised, laughing and momentarily forgetting my freak-out.
“It’s the same deal with romance novels, I guess,” James added. “If your sister has a copy lying around—why not pick it up and see what’s going on?”
If I’d known all these juicy truths about boys, I might have thought twice before putting the Rosamund plan into action.
“Okay, well, if it’s confession time, here’s mine,” I began bravely, feeling calmer now that I knew James’s story (his hand, by the way, was still on my arm). “I like to read romance novels too. In fact, I might be competing with Dina for the title of Irene O’Dell’s biggest fan.” I bit my lip, blushing.
James shook his head and (no!) took his hand away. “That’s what tripped me up originally. At Audre’s party, when I noticed you were holding the Shakespeare sonnets, and then when the whole love letter thing happened, it reminded me of Rosamund right away—since I’d just read To Catch a Duke. But then I thought: What are the chances that Norah’s read that book?”
“Because I’m so serious about the book group books?” I asked. We drifted back toward the bench.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I am too, so I admire that. Plus, I’d never believe that someone who loved Philippa Askance could also love Irene O’Dell.”
Philippa and Irene. They represented the two sides of my personality, in a way. So it was like James was finally seeing who I really was.
“So, that first time, I just wrote it off as my own paranoia,” James finished.
“But then … ,” I prompted, still having heart palpitations.
“The meeting at your house.” James grinned. “I thought I saw To Catch a Duke on your
coffee table, though I wasn’t sure. But by the time you got the double flower delivery—and said something about a Lorenzo, I was pretty much convinced. And when I saw you at the Angelika, that moment had Rosamund and Fitzgerald all over it. Everything matched.”
It was so bizarre to hear James—in his familiar, wonderful James voice—talk about the characters I knew so well—and had imagined were somehow all mine. “And Neil matched Count Alberto, huh?” I asked with a sigh. There was no point in trying to cover my tracks now.
James rubbed his cheek, looking thoughtful. “Yes, and no. I have to admit, I—” He paused, and looked away from me again. “I did believe for a second that you really had a crush on Neil. That you guys were going to get together.” He swallowed hard. “I was so, so jealous.”
My heart soared but I didn’t let myself get carried away—yet. “Jealous?”
James looked back at me. Slowly, he reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I started to melt.
“Crazy jealous, Norah,” he said softly. “Neil called me up on Wednesday to tell me about the date, but I acted like I didn’t care either way. I guess I can be that way sometimes—it’s like I hide how I really feel, even from my good friends.”
I felt a sudden rush of bravery. “How do you really feel?” I asked breathlessly.
It was a question I should have asked him ages ago. If I had, then maybe I would have known sooner what James’s fingers along my arm felt like. And then I’d have known what it was like to have him touch my cheek and feel my blood rush and boil.
James let his fingers trace the side of my face, then drift toward the back of my neck. He undid my low ponytail, and my dark hair fell around my shoulders. My skin was suddenly so hot I didn’t know if I could bear it. And, at the same time, I wanted more.
“How do I really feel?” James repeated quietly. “Can’t you tell?”
I shook my head, dizzy. “Uh, I’m a little oblivious sometimes.”
“Well, me too. Because even though I figured out how you did the Rosamund plan, I still don’t understand why you did it,” James said. “Was it really just to get my attention?” When I nodded, James moved his other hand to take mine.
Yes, really. James Roth was holding my hand.
“But you already had my attention,” James murmured. “You had it from the first day I met you, at the meeting—just when I saw you. And then a little more when we had that psychic choosing-the-same-book moment. And then even more that night we talked at Art House. I almost didn’t believe you could exist, Norah. Smart and well-read and funny and sexy? I thought that was only in books.”
Was the level of my blushing potentially fatal?
James was silent for a minute, and I could tell he was working up his nerve. “By the way, you should know, you still have my attention,” he added. “And …”—James swallowed hard—“my heart.”
I promise you that’s what James said. If I hadn’t been slowly dying, I might have even giggled. Was he stealing lines from trashy romances too?
I know, I know. That’s the moment I should have grabbed James Roth and kissed him like a madwoman. But I couldn’t stop my stream of questions from spilling out.
“Why didn’t you act that way, then?” I demanded (you will note, though, that I was still lacing my fingers through his). “You were always so distant after Art House, and that time with Philippa—you know, when you were going to—” I couldn’t say the words “kiss me.” Not yet.
“I’m a mess when I like a girl,” James said, his ears going red. “I know that’s a sucky excuse, but it’s the truth, Norah. I get all shy and bumbly and weird and end up coming off like I hate her. And, since I like you more than I’ve ever liked any other girl—well, multiply that weirdness by one hundred. When we talked at Art House, it felt so … real that I got kind of freaked. The same thing happened when we were sitting in front of Philippa’s house. I guess I was always pulling away from you, even though I wanted to be with you the whole time.” James shook his head, looking troubled.
“It’s okay,” I assured him, grinning. “Clearly, I’m weird when it come to that stuff too.”
“That’s why I was so into the whole Philippa plan,” James went on. “I mean, sure, I think Philippa Askance is awesome, but mostly it seemed like a good reason for the book group to stay together—for me to keep seeing you without actually having to ask you out.”
So James, too, had had a scheme of sorts. And if that kind of confession can’t make a girl—even a girl who’s never been kissed—feel gutsy, I don’t know what can.
I reached over, touched James’s warm cheek, and gently turned his face back toward mine. He looked so little-boy vulnerable that I knew what I had to say.
“Kiss me,” I whispered.
I watched, still not really believing this was real, as James leaned in toward me. There was his delicious vanilla scent, and the shape of his full lips, but now, suddenly, those lips were on mine. He tasted like strawberries and mint.
It was a warm, sweet, delicious kiss, one that would put Lorenzo to shame. Then I was kissing James back, and, surprisingly, I seemed to know what I was doing. We both did. James’s hands cupped my face, and then my hands were in his hair, and the kiss kept on going, getting better and deeper and more intense the longer we kept at it. Kissing! How had I lived without it for so long? It seemed like the absolute best thing anyone could do with their time.
Only maybe that was just kissing James.
“So you still like me?” I murmured against James’s mouth. “Even after you knew I was doing all the scary Rosamund stuff?” I hated to end that amazing kiss, but I needed to know. James pulled back slowly, his hands still in my hair, and he smiled.
“You can say that,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, maybe I should show you the, like, twenty poems I wrote about you, as evidence.” I laughed, my heart singing, and he added, “Besides, people do crazy stuff for their crushes all the time.”
I nodded. I’d had the exact same thought when Francesca had revealed her Neil scheme. Our whole book group, in a way, had done crazy things for love, from Griffin to Audre to, well, me, the craziest of all. I was about to tell James that, but then I realized that I could hold off. James and I had the whole summer in front of us to talk about crushes and the book group. And besides, maybe that had been our problem all along: talking. We spoke too much, using words as a way to cover up our truest feelings.
Sometimes, you need a break from words.
So, instead of saying anything else, I simply smiled, leaned in again, and put my arms around James’s neck. And, finally, we stopped all our talking—and just kissed.
Afterword
Okay, yes. I’ll be the first to admit it. I am now part of the kind of couple that used to make me gag on the subway.
James and I don’t often make out in public, but we are—if I do say so myself—pretty adorable together (well, Philippa Askance said it too, so I’m really allowed). You can usually find us on a blanket in Prospect Park, reading; walking up and down Seventh Avenue holding hands; or sitting at a corner table in the Book Nook, sharing an iced latte while Audre sneaks us free cookies. Park Slope is even better when you get to share it with a boyfriend.
But here’s the thing: I may be a romantic, but I’m definitely not a hopeless one. I still hate cheesy pop ballads (although I did kind of choke up to “I Wanna Love You Forever” when it came on the radio the other day). I’m still happiest in vintage jeans (though sometimes I take Stacey’s advice and wear a skirt). I still hate roses (though James did surprise me with the most perfect tiger-lily-and-lilac bouquet for my birthday in June) and boxes of chocolates (though I will make an exception when the chocolates are really, really good).
And, even after everything that happened with me, James, Rosamund, and Lorenzo, I still don’t totally believe in soul mates, love at first sight, or destiny.
But I do believe in books.
Books are the reason James and I are to
gether, and books are what will always connect us. And that’s why, even though I’m finally living out the most blissful romance ever, I still find time to curl up with the latest novel by Irene O’Dell. Because boys are boys, and books are books, and, in the end, it’s best to have a little bit of both.
L0L at this sneak peek of
Scary Beautiful By Niki Burnham
A new Romantic Comedy from Simon Pulse
*
No one will admit it, but the first day of school rocks. Not the starting classes or getting loaded with homework part of it (please). It’s the seeing everyone again part. It’s getting all the gossip on who hooked up or broke up, who went on cool vacations to Maui (preferably sans parents) or had cat fights at sports camp. And—best of all—it’s trying to predict which of the quiet, semi-invisible girls got a dye job, lost weight, or nabbed some fantastic summer gig in Paris and will therefore be angling to move into the “in” crowd.