Chapter 47
She hadn't been looking for the book. She hadn't been deliberately poking around Ty's place at all beyond what was necessary to find a wooden bowl for the fruit that would ruin in that bag on top of the microwave or the basket she'd found for the pretty greenery and pinecones she'd gathered on her afternoon walk. And, okay, she'd needed the extra blankets she'd finally located in a chest because the wood stove had gone out and she didn't know how to relight it. But how was she to know his library, such as it was, would be in the cleverly concealed drawers beneath the sofa? And why shouldn't she have looked? She was an author, a reader. She loved books. He had several of Ivy's thrillers, some of Harrison's sci-fi, an assortment of fantasy she wasn't as familiar with. And many of hers.