“Heartbroken and sick with grief, the young scholar left his village and went to the capital to find work. On the hilly road there, he heard the sound of someone running behind him and found his childhood sweetheart had raced two miles up the hill to catch up with him. She loved him, not the other man, and was willing to run away from home to be with him.”

“I like her already,” Astrid said. Slender fingers slid over his. Her thumb rubbed circles into the heel of his palm. “Was he happy?”

“He was happy beyond belief,” Bo told her. “They went to the capital together, where they were married. He found work in the emperor’s library. It didn’t pay much, but he still had all his savings, so he was able to buy them a meager home—”

“I thought he spent all his money on fancy clothes and a horse.”

“He sold those to some dupe in the village for twice what he paid.”

“Very savvy. I like this scholar. What happened next?”

“He and his new wife were living out their dreams. Good work, a roof over their heads, and a nice big bed where they spent all their free time—”

“Oh my.” Her circling thumb moved a little faster.

“—and they had five children.”

“Five? That must have been one very big bed.”

“The biggest.”

“Stars.” Pink dots swelled on the apples of her cheeks. “How did they have any free time with all those children running around? One or two sounds nicer to me. And I’d think that maybe the wife was a famous dancer in the emperor’s court, because she isn’t going to sit around the house all day. So they should probably have a nanny, too.”

“All right, maybe they only had two children. A boy and a girl. And the wife dances, and they have a nanny. And even though the scholar worries how they can afford all this, they somehow make it work, and for five wonderful years they live a joyful, humble life together.”

He slipped his fingers around her wrist and stroked the tender skin there. All this closeness and touching and talking of big beds was funneling all of his blood down between his legs. He vaguely thought he should be careful before he embarrassed himself, but another part of him didn’t care.

“One day, the happy couple decided to return to their village to introduce their families to the children, so they gathered up their kids and traveled the long road back home. On the last stretch of road, the scholar set out ahead to meet her father, because he was afraid the man would be upset and wanted to prepare him. But when he got to their home, her father was not only surprised to see him, he called the scholar a liar.”

“Why?” Astrid’s cheeks were very pink now.

This gave Bo a little thrill.

“Well, you see,” he told her in a low voice, “the father took the scholar back to his childhood sweetheart’s old bedroom. And there, the scholar sees what the old man was talking about. His childhood sweetheart had been sick for the last five years, lying in bed, nearly dead. At this moment, his wife walked into the house with their children, and saw her sick body lying in bed, and they merged together.”

“I don’t understand,” Astrid whispered.

“His childhood sweetheart had loved him so much that five years before, her spirit left her body to meet the scholar on the road to run away with him.”

Astrid’s mouth curved into a little O shape.

He rested his forehead against hers. “Sometimes, while you were in Los Angeles, I’d lay awake at night and imagine my soul breaking away from my body and flying across the state to be with you.”

She made a small noise and squeezed her eyes closed.

At some point, all the gentle stroking they’d been doing had stopped. They were now gripping each other’s hands so tightly, he worried he was crushing her fingers. But she wouldn’t let go. And he couldn’t let go. Because if did, some part of him worried that he wouldn’t be as lucky as the scholar, and that she would float away like a lost balloon, never to be seen again.

Beyond the gallery door, he heard the muffled sound of the yapping dog. Astrid heard it, too. And they both knew what it meant. Their private jungle was being invaded. How long before the door swung open and broke the bewitchment that had Astrid clasping his hand like he was the most important thing in the world?

“Bo,” she whispered. Damp eyelashes fluttered and left small streaks of mascara on the skin beneath her eyes. And those eyes were now fixed on his mouth.

He heard the yapping dog.

He felt his heart hammering wildly.

He saw Astrid looking at his mouth.

And then he saw nothing.

One hand instinctively lifted to cup the back of her neck as he pressed his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a sensual kiss. Not skilled or erotic or knee-weakening. He kissed her like he was the heartbroken scholar in the fable and she’d just appeared on the road to run away with him. He kissed her like it was all he’d been dreaming about doing for the past few years.

He kissed her like the man that Pretend Astrid wanted him to be—like a man who could move mountains.

And the way she kissed him back (warm mouth, fingers digging into his arms, desperate moan, scent of roses) . . . it made the Real Bo believe he actually could.

THIRTEEN

Hours after the kiss, Astrid continued to walk around in a daze. She could still feel the thrill of it cascading over her, and was halfway afraid Bo had rewired her nervous system, because everything she touched—her coat, the car door, the silverware at the dining table—set off small fireworks beneath her skin.