He repaid me by letting me be his dessert as he licked me out like I was the last popsicle on earth, right until I was screaming his name in blissful agony.
The man got skills, let me tell you that.
“What are you reading?” He walks back from the kitchen after he cleaned up the disaster I left there.
His eyes are fixed on the printed version of Charlotte’s manuscript.
“A book.”
“A book?” He lifts my legs before falling onto the couch, placing them on his lap.
“A manuscript,” I specify without telling him who the author is.
“You got that from one of the editors?”
“Actually, no. This is the book of a friend of mine. She wanted me to see if it’s any good,” I lie. “I already told her I’m not an editor, so I am in no position to tell her if it’s any good, but she asked me to read it anyway.”
“Why not?” he asks as he flips the TV on.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you not in the position to tell her if it’s any good?”
“Err, maybe because I don’t have a degree in English literature?”
He tears his eyes away from the TV, tangling them with mine. “Why do you think you need a degree to be able to judge if a book is good?”
I feel like he’s asking me a trick question, so I just frown at him, not sure what he wants me to say.
“I don’t have a degree in English literature.” His confession has my brows moving up to my hairline.
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head.
“But you own a publishing company?”
“I have a degree in business. The reason I have a publishing company is just because I like books.”
“What?” I shriek. “Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all.” He laughs. “I know nothing about copy edits, line edits, or whatever fucking style shit they can jabber about. All I look at in a book is; do I like it? Does it have a good plot? Do I think I can sell it? If the answer is yes, I will publish it.
I stay quiet, my jaw sitting somewhere on the floor until he literally places his fingers under my chin to close it. “Are you okay?” he asks, smiling at my reaction.
“I’m just shocked. Here I thought you were like the master in English. You own the company that has published four bestsellers in the last two years.”
“Nope,” he says, popping his P. “I just created a business to be able to share my love for books.”
“So, what are you saying?” My eyes are sparkling, bemused by this new development.
“I’m saying that you don’t need a degree to be able to see if this is a good book.” He pricks his finger in the paper. “You’re a reader. You love to read. The question is: do you enjoy it? Because if you do, there will be other people who will enjoy it too. Your opinion matters just as much as any of my editor’s.
Your opinion matters just as much.
It’s like he knows exactly what to say to make me just want to hand over my heart, begging for him to hold it. To keep it safe in his strong hands.
“Who sparked your love for books?”
“My mother.” He smiles. “When I was younger, I remember her reading to me every chance she got. It made me fall in love with the craft of storytelling. With fiction.”
“What is your favorite genre?” I tilt my head, interested in his answer.
“Political Thrillers.” It doesn’t surprise me. Bodi is smart. Something tells me he doesn’t want to read a book that doesn’t challenge him at least a little bit.
“Why?”
“Because they can give you a few hours of entertainment where you can escape the world, get completely sucked into the story, and when done right, it also makes you question your own world at the end.”
I hang on to his lip, listening to whatever he has to say.
“What about you? What do you like to read?”
“Historical romance.”
He cocks his head in surprise.
“What?” I screech.
“Nothing.”